The Hotline
by AliciaRoseFantasy
Summary: Public opinion of Spider-Man is beginning to shift. In response, NYPD aims to work closely with the hero to counteract rumours of past police brutality toward the vigilante. But Peter, still frightened from past experiences with aggressive officers, is reluctant to co-operate, until a program once made to communicate with the hero, becomes much, much more. Spidey/NYC Spidey/NYPD
1. Chapter 1

**Hi. So...this took forever to make, and a lot of blood, sweat and tears went into it, so I hope you enjoy! It's a collaboration story I've been working on for months now with AO3's awesome Spidey writer "aloneintherain", known as AITRain here on FF :)  
**

 **This fic incorporates elements of both the comics and TASM movies. The way New York treats Spider-Man changes rapidly depending on the comic series/movie/etc., but in this, New York is increasingly loyal and fond of its hero, while many officers are still suspicious and hostile towards him.**

 **Feedback is always appreciated, so do let us know how we did :) But most of all, READ, and enjoy the ride :D**

 **Disclaimer: we do not own or claim to own Spider-Man.**

* * *

On his way to school, Peter passed by three police officers, clustered around a parked cruiser. He felt nauseous—his hands, buried in the deep pockets of his sweatshirt, began to sweat, and he instinctively curled his shoulders to appear smaller. Even though he was dressed in casual clothes, there was still that instinctive fear, learnt from the countless nights he'd been chased away by cops armed with guns and an arrest warrant.

Peter couldn't help but be afraid of police officers. Not after everything he'd been through.

As he passed, Peter overheard snippets of their conversation. A brunette officer was leaning against the door of the car, frowning. "I don't like it," he was saying, shaking his head.

The oldest cop frowned. "You don't have to like it. You just have to accept it."

"I think it's a good idea," said the third. He was the youngest of the three. His face was still thick with baby fat, skin smooth and hair free; clearly inexperienced.

The brunette scoffed. "You would. Trust me; those pencil pushers behind the desks don't know what they're talking about. They're not out on the ground, seeing the damage those goddamn—"

"Neither are you, if I recall," said the oldest coolly. She raised an eyebrow. "You've been stuck with simple muggings and neighbourhood complaints, right? You haven't seen what heroes have been doing."

"And you have?"

The policewoman nodded. "Once, a while ago. You just need to be there, to personally see what good the superheroes are doing. Then you'll understand. You'll understand, you'll know how—how important they are."

" _Superheroes_?" The brunette cop shook his head, huffing angrily. The youngest was looking between them, eyes wide, invested in their argument. "Like _Spider-Man_? Don't make me laugh. They're _menaces_ , vigilantes at best—"

"Watch it, buddy!"

Peter hadn't realised he'd slowed on the busy sidewalk, too busy eavesdropping on the off-duty cops, until a grumpy businessman bumped into him as he passed. He was suddenly aware of the officers turning their way, conscious of Peter hovering with his hoodie pulled down, back faced to them. He realised how suspicious he looked, and hurried toward school.

* * *

 _Bang!_

Peter remembered the gunshots like it was yesterday. Sure, he'd been shot many times before, but there was something about this occasion that stayed with him. It spiked fear in his heart whenever he remembered, like a cold nightmare haunting his every move.

It had been an ordinary day, fighting bad guys like he always did. When the cops had arrived though, mid-fight, Peter hadn't been expecting their actions.

His relationship and reputation with the police had been slowly falling, with the majority of them against him for a while now, but this was pretty normal, and he didn't think much of it. He'd usually just deal with the criminals, before making a few smart, witty remarks, and swinging off before the cops knew what to do about it.

From the minute they stepped out of their vehicles though, he knew something was wrong.

All he could remember was the clear view of fully black armoured policemen rushing out of the cars low to the ground with large taser guns in their hands, pointing straight up at him.

He'd barely had time to react from his position mid twist, spider-sense screaming in his head.

The rest was a blur.

Sparks of electricity, burning pain like none other, muscles spasming and unresponsive; they hit him like a tank. How he'd escaped was not something he could easily recall, all he could remember was lashing out in terror, swinging away shivering and aching all over, vision blurry and unfocused, then waking up the next morning sprawled out on his bedroom floor like he couldn't make that extra inch to the bed.

He hadn't been aware of the arrest warrant that happened to have been placed on his head earlier that day. The police's trust had broken from its final thread, completely snapping and leaving him a major threat to the city. And this time, they'd been prepared.

The cold hate in those officer's eyes is what haunted him day and night. That unrelenting disgust, like he wasn't even a person, but a thing, a menace. A menace to be captured, locked up and thrown around like he wasn't even human—Peter wasn't sure it was something he would ever forget.

Since then, their treatment of him had not been pleasant.

That memory still brought Peter fear, affecting his every day crime fighting, making him uneasy and flighty, the feeling creeping down his spine.

The nightmare that had woken him up this morning, legs twisted in sweat-drenched sheets, choking back a panicked scream, was of that day only months ago. Even when asleep, he couldn't forget it.

Peter tried to shake off the memories as he ran up the path to his school, lanky legs carrying him, brown spiky hair flopping all over the place. He raced into the corridors just before the bell rang, his small form unusually hunched over and jumpy. Peter was on edge, anxious. Being in school, surrounded by people and sounds and movement, was awful.

 _It would be fine,_ he tried to tell himself. He'd been more cautious lately, leaving crime scenes long before he could even hear sirens.

Surely Peter had no reason to worry about the police.

* * *

Peter was exhausted. He'd been on edge all day, anxiety dogging his every thought, and he had found himself jumping at every sound. His spidey-sense had picked up around lunchtime, thrumming lowly at the base of his skull. It did that sometimes, reacting to anxiety Peter couldn't shake, and he had learnt to ignore it.

Still, it was annoying, and Peter couldn't stop the feeling that something, somehow, was going to go very wrong.

Peter stumbled across a growing crowd of people on his way home from school. They were gathering on the sidewalk, looking up at one of the huge screens placed around New York. The screen showed an older man with thinning hair and an official air about him, standing behind a podium and addressing a crowd of reporters.

Peter ventured closer, curious. Some of the crowd was murmuring to one another, and he couldn't help but overhear.

"About _time_ they did something," grumbled an older, college-aged boy.

His girlfriend nodded. "I know, right? Heroes are here to help. I can't believe the NYPD have been allowed to act so—so _hostile_ toward them for so long."

"It's freaking unfair," agreed the young man. "As if Spidey doesn't have enough on his plate as it is."

Peter stiffened at hearing he was the topic of conversation, and crept closer. The block text on the screen beneath the older man read: _Mayor announces new program to restore relations between NYPD and Spider-Man._

Lightbulbs flashed over the Mayor's face as he spoke, "Spider-Man is dedicated to protecting this city, just as the police are. They're both trying to achieve the same things—to look after the fine people of New York. It makes sense for them to communicate and work together."

A male reporter in the crowd spoke up, shouting a question over the sound of clicking cameras. "Sir, what about the allegations that the NYPD have been openly hostile toward Spider-Man? How are they supposed to work together?"

"The police are a part of this city, and the majority of them trust in Spider-Man as much as the people do," said the Mayor. Peter knew that was a _lie_. "Those that do harbour ill-feelings toward Spider-Man—" _so_ most _of them,_ Peter thought, "—will have a chance to work with him close up, and maybe change the way they think."

Work with him. _Close up._ The anxiety that had been simmering beneath his skin all day was burning, becoming something else, venturing into real fear, panic.

Peter couldn't work with the police. He couldn't. They hated him. They'd—they'd arrest him, first chance they got.

This had to be a trick. A trap. Something to lure him, to give the police an opportunity to hurt him again.

Faintly, Peter was aware of the press conference continuing above him.

Reporters were continuing to question the Mayor; "What about the arrest warrant on Spider-Man?"

"It's been officially dropped."

"What about Spidey's secret identity—"

"We're allowing him to maintain it, so long as he continues to work in the legal guidelines of this program." _Allowing him._ God, Peter couldn't believe this.

"How does Spider-Man feel about this program?"

The Mayor cleared his throat, and bared his whitened teeth at the camera, offering a wide, political smile. "The city of New York is very excited to work with Spider-Man. He's a blessing to this city. However, he's difficult to contact. He's not exactly someone we can just send a letter in the mail to." There was a low ripple of laughter among the reporters. "Government employees will be approaching Spider-Man in the next week or so, with the program initiated within the next few months."

The Mayor's gaze was intent, heavy. Peter felt as though he was looking straight at him. "We're all looking forward to working with Spider-Man," the Mayor said.

Peter couldn't breathe.

The Mayor expected Peter to work with the police? The people who'd shot him, tasered him, tried to strip him of his mask and lock him up?

His heartbeat was loud in his ears, his hands shaking and wet with sweat. Peter acted on impulse, turning and stumbling through the crowd with his head down. His movements were probably too fast, running faster than a normal teenager should be able to, but he didn't care, he didn't care, he needed to get out of here, get somewhere safe.

By the time Peter fell into his room, panic was choking him, and he was gasping for air. He locked his bedroom door, grateful his Aunt was out, fell onto his bed, and tried not to shake apart.

* * *

"Peter?"

Peter jolted awake with a start, nearly slamming his head on the ceiling as he'd apparently jumped several feet into the air, before crashing back down onto the mattress.

He lay there, sprawled in a disorientated, messy heap, before he heard the noise again that had originally woken him.

"Peter, dear. Are you up there? Dinner's nearly ready." His Aunt's sweet voice came up from the bottom of the stairs.

 _Dinner,_ Peter thought. Had he really slept that long? Quickly getting up from his messy bed, he clicked the mechanism to unlock his door and trudged down the stairs, running a hand through his messy hair, dark circles visible under his eyes. Well, at least he'd gotten _some_ sleep, be it a few hours. His sleeping pattern had been highly messed up of late, due to the plaguing nightmares.

"Oh, there you are, Peter," Aunt May said from the kitchen, leaning over the stove. "I was wondering if you were home," she added, with a slight edge of concern.

"Mmm, twas sleeping," Peter replied, brown eyes blinking the lingering sleep away, while a hand rubbed at his face.

"Sleeping, again? Peter, you've got to get to bed earlier, we can't have you sleeping at all hours of the day. The school has already rung about it several times over the last few months."

"Sorry, homework," Peter lied. Of course, he couldn't tell her that the real reason he wasn't getting any sleep was because he was out all night crime fighting. The nightmares weren't something he could tell her about either (or wanted to).

"You teenagers," Aunt May tutted, "always so caught up in schoolwork lately, but do try to look after yourself, dear. You're a good boy, and I wouldn't want to see you burn yourself out."

"Yes, Aunt May," Peter said, before grabbing a juice from the fridge, and wandering over to the couch.

He immediately regretted the action though when he realised what was playing on TV, bringing a sinking feeling to his stomach, and reminding him of why he had fallen asleep in such a state in the first place.

 _"_ _Earlier this afternoon, the Mayor officially announced a new program designed to make the New York City Police Department and the local hero, Spider-Man, work together,"_ said a local newsreader, prim in a floral dress. " _There has been much speculation as to how exactly this will happen, and citizens' opinions have been varied, but the majority of New Yorkers are hoping for this to be successful, and for the bridge between our crime fighters to be mended, as the gap between them has been an ongoing problem for many months now."_

The woman cleared her throat, and continued, _"We now cut to the chief of The Daily Bugle for his say on the matter."_

The scene changed to a grumpy looking man with graying hair and a thick moustache. " _THAT WALL-CRAWLING—!"_

Peter slammed on the remote, switching the TV off before he could hear any more. How could his day get any worse? How could the people want him to work with the police, who'd hurt him so badly in the past? Why would they even care?

Man, this whole thing was sending him up the wall, literally. He really wasn't sure he could take anymore of the never ending fear and anxiety—constantly looking over his shoulder, expecting there to be a policeman there with a giant taser gun, waiting to take him down, lock him up somewhere dark and alone.

"Come have your dinner, Peter, or it'll get cold!" Aunt May called suddenly from the kitchen, jarring him from his mental breakdown.

 _Saved by Aunt May,_ Peter thought, managing a slight smile. He shook his head, trying to push away his nagging anxiety and questions as he trudged into the kitchen. The whole thing would probably just blow over after a while, once the hype died down. But whatever their sneaky plan was, he was determined not to let them win.

* * *

Roughly one week later, that's exactly what he'd done. Peter had so far managed to avoid any official looking people. He stayed as far away from the police as he possibly could, taking out criminals as quickly and discreetly as possible, so as not to be seen and draw attention to himself.

In many ways, Spider-Man had somewhat disappeared, the only sign of him being the webbed up criminals he left behind.

The officials themselves were being very quiet on the matter. He knew the government was just trying not to alert people to it. If it was all over the news they would have to acknowledge the influx of questions that no one wanted to answer. It made Peter smirk, knowing how guilty they were of purposefully harming him; he was certain he had the upper-hand in this situation.

Peter rested his head back where he sat on the side of a wall, happily taking a break from his run of successful crime fighting that morning, when he heard the sirens in the distance.

He sighed. "Oh well, duty calls," he said to himself, disappointed that his break was cut short. He pushed himself off the brick surface of the wall and shot a web, heading in the direction of the disturbance.

So long as Peter was able to continue his patrols; as long as he could protect his people and avoid the NYPD, then everything would be fine. Maybe, if he ignored them long enough, they'd drop the program entirely.

* * *

A dozen police cars were stopped outside a bank. Many of the windscreens were shattered, the cars littered with bullet holes. Officers were crouched behind half-destroyed cars for protection. Atop the bank stairs, two men in balaclavas stood, holding machine guns and firing wildly out into the crowd of police cars.

The dozen or so cops, huddled close to the ground to avoid errant bullets, missed the soaring blur of red and blue. No one saw the hero crawl over the roof and down the bank's pillars, but when the rain of bullets immediately stopped, everyone looked up.

The machine guns had been stolen straight from the robbers' hands, and were now webbed against the bank's roof.

The robbers were frozen; the balaclavas did not mask the shock on their faces as they stared at their empty hands with complete disbelief. "Wha—?"

Reflective goggles, dangled upside down, met their confused gaze. The robbers openly gaped. "You know, this really isn't a healthy way to deal with your anger," said the upside down man, gesturing with a gloved hand at the webbed-up guns hanging from the roof. "You should take up something more therapeutic—like knitting. Or yoga! You guys should _definitely_ take up yoga."

The tallest robber spat, " _Spider-Man."_

Spidey offered them a little, jaunty upside down wave. "Hiya!"

Tallest shook his head, fists clenched at his side. Behind Spidey, the cops began to uncurl from their protective positions. Several cops rushed paramedics inside the bank, where they knew injured hostages laid awaiting help.

"I won't—" Tallest was shaking with rage, mouth twisted up in a defiant snarl. "I won't go down like this!"

Spidey was scratching his head, the beginnings of a nonchalant quip on his lips, and so missed Tallest's partner, who had so far been silent and still, inch away from the hero. The smaller criminal turned abruptly and sprinted toward the police cars before Spidey could so much as flinch.

A brunette cop was only just getting to her feet, moving toward the bank on shaky legs. The other cops around them called out, raising their guns, but it was too late—the robber tackled the young woman, and the both of them went tumbling over the bonnet of a nearby car.

Spider-sense screaming, heart beating frantically, Spidey moved on instinct. With superhuman reflexes, he followed the duo over the car, landing roughly on the asphalt.

The small robber bared yellow teeth at him, his eyes wide and crazy. His arms were wrapped around the cop, keeping her trapped. They were pressed together, but still, Spidey could see the wires of a bomb strapped beneath his jacket.

They were too close to the bank- full of hostages and police officers and paramedics. If it blew…

"BOMB!" Spidey shouted in warning. "EVERYONE GET BACK!"

With one hand, Spidey pried the robber off of the cop. He wasn't gentle as he bodily threw her toward the safety of the bank, before picking up the robber and jumping away, racing towards the back of the clustered police cars. No one was back there, everyone having moved toward the bank.

They landed behind an armoured police van, and Spidey ripped the robber's thick jacket off, trying to get to the bomb. Maybe—maybe he could use his superhuman strength to tear into the bomb—maybe he could save this man—

"It's too late, it's too late," murmured the robber in a litany. His eyes were bloodshot and frantic, and he began to giggle, breathy and high. "It's too late!"

Spidey heard a hitched, panicked breath. He looked up and met the gaze of a young, terrified cop, frozen only metres away from him, the robber, and the ticking bomb. The inexperienced cop must have been the only one that hadn't rushed toward the bank.

The robber threw his head back and cackled, like he'd been told a tremendously funny joke. "It's too late," he gasped at the blue, open sky. His huge grin was visible beneath the balaclava. The bomb had only seconds before detonation.

Spidey abandoned the robber, and leapt at the young cop. He grabbed him around the waist, and pulled him behind a neighbouring police car—Spidey positioning the young man against him, shielding the cop with his body just as the bomb exploded.

Heat surrounded them, throwing cars and knocking cops off their feet. Spidey couldn't see anything, couldn't hear over the roaring in his ears—felt nothing but pain and red hot burning and a squirming, gasping body against his.

 _Just hold tight,_ he told himself. _Just hold on. Protect this innocent man. Protect, protect, protect…_

It took only moments for the fire to fade, but it left destruction all around them. Cars had been reduced to burning husks, plumes of smoke rising from all around, and faint, disorientated screaming could be heard. Shouts of panic, and voices thrown across the space, asking if everyone was okay.

A voice, high and panicked and basically in Peter's ear, screamed back, "Spider-Man! Spidey's—Spidey's injured!"

Spidey gasped for air. A body wriggled against his tight hold, trying to pull him away, but he held tight—he had to protect this man. Spidey was the reason the bomb was so close to him, it was his fault, he had to protect, he had to—!

"Spidey!" The wriggling stopped. A hand traced a soft touch against his webbed mask. He felt numb all over—limbs stiff and faintly wet, still burning red-hot. His back was a mass of consuming agony. "Spidey, you're okay. The—the danger's gone, you—" The voice choked up, words thick with panic and the threat of tears. "—you saved me. You—oh my god—"

"Spider-Man!" More hands joined the shaking first. Fingers pressed into the tender, ripped flesh of his back, and Spidey arched away, his scream cut-off and muffled beneath the mask.

"You have to let go," said the new voice, pulling again at Spidey's grip. "They can't treat you if—"

Spidey could hardly breathe, everything aching and burning and choking, but he knew in his bones that he would die before he let anything happen to an innocent young man. Nothing would hurt this officer.

The pushing fingers were useless against his superhuman grip. Someone else chimed in, voice strong and full of authority, "Spider-Man, you have to let go. You're hurting him."

Spidey dropped his hands immediately, recoiling in horror. Someone was behind him, touching light fingers over the shoulder of his suit. "It's okay," they said in a whisper. "He's okay. It's just bruising."

But it was too much. Spidey, body exhausted and pushed to its extremes, was shaking. His thoughts were tumbling away, and he was aware of nothing but probing hands against his wet skin and distant voices, and burning, _burning_ pain.

His legs buckled suddenly, as he was unable to take any more, and he collapsed forward. The shocked cop only just managed to hold him as he fell, preventing him from falling to the ground.

His head swam and his body went limp as he choked for breath, throat tight and constricted with panic, shivering uncontrollably with fear.

"Oh god, oh god, Spidey. Oh, oh what do I do, what do I do?" The young cop panicked, as he held onto Spidey's form sprawled over him. His shock was mirrored on the surrounding officers' faces, as paramedics moved in.

"Can you get him off you?" one of the medics asked. It took the cop a second to register the question, before he tried pushing Spidey off of him with the assistance of other paramedics.

Spidey screamed as the pain flared worse all down his back, the sound ripping from his throat and bringing tears to the cop's eyes, who immediately stopped and let him rest against him.

"No, I—I can't do it, I can't cause him pain," he protested, crying, as he could feel Spidey's body shaking and shivering against his, chest heaving with harsh, too-fast breaths.

The crew looked at him searchingly for a second, before nodding, and preparing to treat Spidey's wounds standing up.

The second Spidey felt something pull against a piece of shrapnel in his back he screamed again, squirming away.

Head lolling slightly, he weakly grabbed onto the car with one hand, bending the metal in his grip, while the other pressed flat just to the side of the cop's head, whose eyes widened in shock at the action.

"Keep him still. He needs to calm down," one of the paramedics yelled.

Sucking in a shaky breath, the cop reached up a shivery hand towards Spidey's neck, sliding it up to his jaw. Instantly, he felt the mad flutter of Spidey's heartbeat as his fingers brushed the pulse point, and the movement of his throat racking over several pain-filled, panicked gulps.

More tears came to the cop's eyes, as pain filled his heart for the injured hero. "He's—he's scared," he choked. He shifted his position as best he could—trying to make sure Spidey wouldn't fall—as he brought his hand round to cup the vigilante's face, the other his chin. "It's alright, Spidey. You're okay, you're okay. I've got you," he soothed.

Spidey heard the whispered words of the man he'd saved through the pain, along with feeling the soft, shaking hands cupping his face against his spandex covered skin, and instantly, felt himself calming.

The cop felt Spidey's throat swallow hard a few more times, before he seemed to finally begin to relax, letting his chin come to rest on the officer's shoulder. Quickly, the cop moved his hand to cup the back of his head, before looking over to the paramedics.

"Good job," they whispered, slightly awed, before getting to work.

It took a little while for them to clean up Spidey's back, removing bits of shrapnel and treating burns, only a few whimpers and squirming movements from their patient getting past the young cops gentle soothing. By the time they were done, Spidey, exhausted, had fallen asleep with his head rested in the crook of the cops shoulder. Without thinking twice, he slid his arm under Spidey's knees, and carefully lifted the snoozing bundle into his arms—mindful of his now heavily bandaged back—before starting to walk over to a mostly undamaged police car.

"Jack? What are you doing?! Quick, take his mask off now!" One of his fellow colleagues—who'd only just arrived on the scene—yelled suddenly as he came running towards him. Other new arrivals were getting out of cars behind.

Jack instantly curled Spidey tighter into his chest. "No," he said, voice thick with emotion. Instead, he shifted Spidey in his arms, and opened his car door. Slowly, he moved into the back seat, resting Spidey in a sitting position, while he reached over and grabbed a blanket that was sat upon the back dash of the car, spreading it over the seats. Then, without jostling the web-slinger too much, he carefully laid him down on his side, easing his head back, and letting him rest.

The minute Jack pulled his head out of the car, after making sure his charge was comfortable, he was greeted with several angry and confused faces.

"Jack? Why isn't he in handcuffs? He's a menace!" asked Jack's friend. But he only received nervous silence in reply. The other officer made a move for the car.

"No, Morgan! I won't let you hurt him!" Jack shouted, as he bodily moved into the doorway, blocking access to the car's interior. "He's been through enough already! He—he saved my life." The words come out in a soft, choked whisper, causing his friend's face to contort in confusion.

Morgan wouldn't listen, too focused on the red and blue form lying prone behind Jack. "Are you insane? He's—"

A hand on the man's elbow stilled him. The young woman who the robber had tackled, the one who wouldn't be standing there had Spidey not intervened, glared up at him.

"Marissa," Jack said, relieved. He didn't move forward to greet or thank his colleague, still blocking the doorframe with his body. He would fight off anyone who tried to come closer and harm the hero, if he had to.

Marissa was focused on Morgan, her eyes fierce, her shoulders squared. "Morgan," she began, words tight. "Get out of here. Go do your job."

Morgan gestured angrily at Jack and the police car sheltering the unconscious hero. "I'm _trying_ to do my job! Do you have any idea how long we've been trying to nab that freaking—"

"— _hero_ ," Marissa interrupted. "That freaking _hero_ is the reason we're all not smouldering ash right now." Morgan glared at her, but Marissa didn't let his anger stop her. She moved in close, her stance aggressive and unwavering, getting right in his face. "So why don't you _go_ and do your _job_ , and help the hostages? Or process the remaining criminals—y'know, the ones who tried to shot us all full of bullets less than half an hour ago—rather than chasing after the guy who _saved_ us?"

Marissa's angry tone, and Jack's previous panicked outburst, body bracketed against the car door—visibly protecting the hero, seemed to chase away any of the other officers in the area who wanted to also arrest Spider-Man. There were grumbles, many angry glances thrown their way, but for the most part, no one came forward.

A smarter man would have backed down at Marissa's glare, run off with his tail between his legs, but Morgan stood tall and gritted out, "I'm _trying_ to do my job, Officer Mandez. Our orders are to arrest Spider-Man."

"Those orders were dropped," she said coolly. "The arrest warrant is gone. Remember?"

There was a long moment of tense, challenging silence. Jack, frozen in the doorframe, started as Spidey whined—a low pained, disorientated noise. "Spidey," he murmured, worried.

Marissa sighed. The tension dissolved, the possibility of a fight having passed. "Go do your job, Morgan," she said tiredly, scrubbing a hand over her face.

Morgan shook himself. He paused for the briefest moment, before huffing and leaving dutifully toward the bank, casting one last disdainful glance over his shoulder. Marissa smiled tightly, and asked the young cop, "How is he, Jack?"

Jack glanced back at Spidey. His suit was wrecked; parts of the spandex had melted onto inflamed skin. Other parts had been scraped away to reveal bloody, torn wounds, most of which had already been bandaged to the best of the paramedic's ability.

Jack wet his lips, and said hoarsely, "Not good."

More officers, the backup that had been requested, were beginning to arrive on the scene. Many of which were casting furtive glances their way, curious, some looking ready to intervene.

"Okay," Marissa decided, coming around the driver side of the car, "get in the back. We're getting out of here."

Jack blinked at her. "What? Where—?"

Morgan could be seen talking with several other cops, all of them taller and bulkier, more menacing than either Marissa or Jack. The group kept glancing back at them, eyes narrowed.

"Somewhere that's not here," Marissa said. "Get in the car, Jack."

Jack got in.

* * *

 **Well, there you go guys :)** **It's written about equally by both writers, so this chapter's a mashup from each of us. We kinda just started talking about tons of ideas and brainstormed until we came up with a basic outline for the story, and then started writing, taking turns by going backwards and forwards between each writer haha. So if you wanted to know, that's how it was made lol :) It was actually extremely fun :D  
**

 **Now, updates will most likely be slow on this because it is a collab and joint effort, which means editing takes a while, but most of the story IS already written, so it will all be uploaded eventually. Just be patient :) Until then, I'm still doing Helping Hand and aloneintherain will still be doing her stuff. So, plenty to read :) Oh! And if you haven't checked aloneintherain out yet, you really should; her stories are beyond amazing! :D**

 **Anyway, I hope you liked it and have a nice day! :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**To be honest, this chapter is mostly comfort (hehe), but we hope you enjoy! :D And** **thank you all for the wonderful support! We've been completely blown away by the love! :')**

* * *

Peter came to awareness slowly. Voices floated above him, though he couldn't discern who they were, or what they were saying. Everything hurt, the pain in his back blinding, and he felt too hot, like he did before the spider serum, feverish and sick. Or when he was rescuing people from building fires and spent too long exposed to the flames, returning home with burning, fire licked wounds.

He tried to shift against the hard surface he was curled against, but his limbs wouldn't co-operate.

He started as he was thrown. The sudden movement was jarring, and jostled his injuries. He cried out.

"Spidey!"

"Sorry, pot hole! My bad!"

It was a struggle to move. His body felt heavy, and fatigue pushed against his eyes. He slowly unfurled his limbs and shook his head, as though to kick-start his brain, muddling through his heavy, soupy thoughts.

"Whaa?" he slurred. The sunlight hurt his eyes, and his throat felt raw.

"Spidey," came a soft, calming voice. Peter blinked into a pair of worried hazel eyes. "Spidey, hey. Hi. How you doing, buddy?"

"Whaaa?" Peter swallowed roughly. "Wheear?"

"Where are you?" Peter nodded, yes. "You're in the back of a police car. We—"

Police car. Peter's eyes snapped open beneath the goggles of his mask. He looked beyond the kind hazel eyes, past the boyish face, and at the uniform. It was stained with huge amounts of blood, and a little dusty, but it was unmistakably the dark navy of a police uniform, complete with badge and a gun strapped at the man's side.

Peter flinched back against the car door. "NO!"

The police officer seemed surprised. "Spidey?"

The man brought up a hand to touch him, and Peter curled further away. He was breathing too-fast, frantic. Panicked. This couldn't happen, how did he get here; how did he let himself get captured _again_ —

"Please," Peter tried. His voice sounded wet. "Please, I'm—I'm a good guy, you don't need to—need to—" Peter cut off, panting. Adrenaline raced through his veins, surpassed only by the instinctual fear he felt all over, making his heart beat frantically in his chest, a hummingbird battling against its bone cage.

Reasoning with the police was useless, Peter knew. No matter how many times he tried to convince them he was trying to help, they still shot him. They still distrusted him.

"Spidey! Spidey, hey! You're okay! You're with us; we're the police, okay? We're going to take good care of you."

Peter scrambled at the car door, fingers scraping against the door uselessly. He was too weak to properly man an escape. He was aware of hands coming forward, trying to brace him, and he cried out again and flinched back.

"He's freaking out, Jack!"

"I know! Why is he—?"

"Jack… Jack, I think he might be frightened of us."

"Well, yeah, I can see that!"

"No. No, I think he knows we're cops, and _that's_ why he's frightened."

Silence reigned in the car, broken only by the sounds of outside New York, and Peter's rough, panicked breathing. The others were still. That, if nothing else, convinced Peter to open his eyes, calm down enough to survey his surroundings.

The hazel-eyed officer was in the backseat with him, but braced against the opposite door. He was staring at Peter with huge eyes, and looked sad and mournful, as though Peter was breaking his heart.

In the rearview mirror, Peter could see the driver of the car, a police woman, her hair streaked blonde, wearing a pinched, deliberating expression. Her eyes, too, were sad.

"Spidey…" murmured the younger one. His voice was low, calming. Somehow, it was familiar. "Spidey, hey, pal."

That voice, where had he heard it before? Why was it so recognisable?

Peter groaned, suddenly feeling exhausted, and placed a gloved palm to his head. What happened? He couldn't remember anything but noise, fire, and pain. Lots and lots of pain. Had he been hurt? Had someone helped him? But he was in a police car, and policemen meant pain. They never helped him. A wave of panic washed over him and he gasped, fingers beginning to shake as the full consequences of his adrenalin rush hit him.

Peter suddenly coughed and rasped, throat so dry he could barely swallow, exposure to the fire having left him choked up.

"W-water, he needs water! There's a bottle in the compartment under the dash of the passenger seat. Can you hand it over?" Jack yelled, panicked, to the woman driving. She quickly leaned over, without taking her eyes off of the road, and grabbed a see-through water bottle, passing it to Jack, who grabbed it quickly.

"Spidey. Hey, here," he said tentatively, as he held out the bottle.

Peter could see the cool liquid sloshing around inside, his dry mouth longing for it so badly. But instead, he shrunk back further again, panting—fear preventing him from receiving the much-needed substance.

"Spidey, look. Here." Jack popped open the lid of the bottle, and poured a small amount onto his hand. "Water, see?" he said, holding his wet hand up as proof.

"Jack, I don't think he trusts you," the woman said seriously, taking glances at what was going on in the back through the rear view mirror.

Jack choked, "I-I know. But I don't, I don't know…" He couldn't stop the growing tears, too overwhelmed and exhausted. He lowered the water bottle in his hand, cheeks becoming wet.

That voice, Peter knew it. He remembered soothing whispers and gentle touches breaking through the pain—oh that _pain_ —and the fear, grounding him. He knew this man, and for some reason felt the slightest nudge of trust towards him from somewhere deep in his subconscious.

Slowly, biting back the pain, he moved from his fetal position next to the door, and crawled towards the man.

"Jack," Marissa suddenly said, breaking through Jack's distressed state. He just made a sad sniffing noise in reply, tears continuing to fall from closed eyes. "Jack!" She yelled again, more urgently this time, and Jack felt a strangely textured hand weakly probe at his.

His eyes snapped open to find Spidey crouched before him, trying to get to the water bottle.

Jack's eyes became wide, and he quickly straightened up, tears forgotten, and lifted the bottle.

"Here, you want some?" he asked as calmly and softly as he could, so to not startle Spidey in his unstable state.

Peter's hands clung on to his wrist, before he hesitantly reached up to the seam of his mask, and without a second's delay, lifted it above his nose, exposing his mouth.

Jack's breath hitched and Marissa gasped from the driver's seat. But they didn't have time to think about this as Jack guided the bottle to Spidey's dry lips. He stared with wide eyes and a shocked expression of disbelief, as Peter took a slow, tentative sip.

He swallowed, and Jack flinched with him at the obvious discomfort as it went down his raw throat, the feeling bittersweet as it both soothed and hurt him.

Peter took a few more gulps, surprisingly slower than what would have been expected from someone in his thirsty state.

"Hey," Jack said sadly, as he reached up to touch Spidey's sore neck in a soothing, reassuring manner.

The minute his fingers came in contact with his throat though, Peter freaked, the touch being frightening and invasive, as he thought he was being choked, and rocketed back to the farthest side of the seats, bottle with him. He curled there, gasping once again, as the pain in his back consumed him from the sudden movement, frightened eyes staring at Jack beneath glossy bug lenses.

"I'm sorry, I thought—I'm so sorry, Spidey, I didn't want to scare you. I was only trying to help, I'm so sorry!" Jack panicked, an explosion of apologies tumbling from him. "Spidey? Come on." He tried to reach out towards Peter, but he only flinched away again.

"Jack, Jack just leave him—leave him be for a while, you'll only make it worse," Marissa said, glancing at them again.

Jack sighed, giving one last look at Peter's frightened form—whose eyes had yet to leave him— before settling down in his seat, and looking out the window instead.

* * *

The rest of the trip was slow, Spidey barely moving from his position at the door. His head would drop in obvious exhaustion every now and then, and pained whimpers of distress would escape him every time they went over a bump, causing Jack's heart to pang with sorrow. Spidey held onto the water bottle the whole time, but it worried Jack to notice he wasn't drinking any more of it, just clinging onto it with shaking hands.

"We're here!" He was broken out of his thoughts by Marissa yelling, pulling the car to a stop.

"Where are we?" Jack asked.

"My place, I couldn't think of anywhere else to take him. The kids won't be home for a few hours, so we have a bit of time," she said, opening her door and getting out.

Jack looked over at Spidey, who was looking at him again, having lifted his head from where it had been resting, as Marissa opened the door behind him.

Nervously, he gently held out his arms towards the hero in a welcoming way. "Spidey. Pal? Come on. We've got to take you inside so we can help you feel better. You're safe here. No one's going to hurt you," he said, eyes trusting and kind, as if he was talking to a frightened animal.

Spidey didn't move.

"Hey, come on, it's alright. Would you like some hot chocolate? I could get you some chocolate. Or—or maybe we could cut up some sandwiches? Anything you like, just let us help you," he coaxed.

"Hot chocolate is too warm, he's already overheated," Marissa stated from behind. "And aren't sandwiches kind of corny? He's not a little kid, you don't need to cut the crusts off for him," she added. Jack couldn't help but laugh a little.

"Well, you try and come up with something better," he replied, the slightest of smiles on his face.

The light change of atmosphere seemed to do the trick, as Spidey relaxed slightly, and without being entirely sure what he was doing, crawled into Jack's arms.

Jack quickly scooped him up, holding him gently to his chest, eyes wide once again with the fact that he'd moved at all, before he began to walk towards the front door.

The minute they walked in, he let out a breath he'd been holding in relief—for Spidey hadn't tried to bolt in those few minutes they were outside.

"Put him down on the couch in the living room. I'll get some water and cloths to clean those wounds with," Marissa ordered, as she disappeared around a corner. Jack was left standing in the middle of the entrance with an armful of half-conscious vigilante.

Jack felt strange, off-kilter. Only two hours ago he was receiving word that a nearby bank was being robbed, and now here he was, standing in the home of a colleague he rarely talked to, holding New York's famous hero in his arms after having narrowly missed being blown to pieces by an errant bomb. He was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Still, his grip on Spidey as he ventured further into the house, trying to search out the living room, was strong and sure.

He placed Spidey gently down on the sofa. Immediately, the vigilante curled away from him, huddling against the protective back of the couch, legs and arms tucked in. Spidey had risked his life for Jack, but he didn't trust him enough to be near him?

Marissa returned soon after. She placed several more bottles of water, pre-wrapped sandwiches, and a lukewarm bowl of clean water on the coffee table. She shoved a wet cloth into Jack's hands.

"Okay," Marissa began, staring down at Spidey. She looked determined, like a woman about to go to war. "Okay, how do we do this?"

"How do we do what?"

"How do we help him without getting kicked in the face?"

Jack considered that. He eyed Spidey dubiously. "That…that may be a challenge, yes."

A sore, croaky voice interrupted them both. "You could just ask?" Spidey said, looking up at them.

"You'd let us?" Marissa asked, skeptical. "After the fuss you kicked up in the back seat?"

Jack opened his mouth to argue, to defend Spidey, but Marissa waved him off. Spidey tried to shift on the couch, but stopped, making a pained mewling sound as the movement stretched raw, too-tight skin.

"Maybe," Spidey finally admitted. He had nowhere else to go, after all. They all knew it. He couldn't limp away to lick his wounds someplace else; he was too injured to move, and the worried cops wouldn't allow him to go without helping him first. "If—if you do it." Spidey pointed weakly at Jack. "And stay where I can see you at all times. And everyone gets rid of their guns!"

Marissa snorted. "Already hung up my gun. I have two kids; I have a strict 'no visible guns in the house' policy." She took Jack's gun from him, and left, calling out—tone joking, "And I can see where I'm not wanted! You kids party without me, see if I care!"

Somehow, Jack coaxed Spidey into giving him his injured arm. He began dabbing at the scraped up wound, doing his best to clean away dirt, and crusted blood, and pick away pieces of the melted spandex suit. Spidey remained quiet throughout. His chin was tucked against his chest, his head tilted defensively. Spidey's taut body language made it obvious that he was uncomfortable, afraid, ready to jump away at the smallest sign of danger.

Jack had lots of experience taking care of people, despite being in his early twenties. When he was younger, he developed this desperate, driving need to help the people of New York—the main reason he joined the NYPD—and so he had volunteered at the local hospital during high school. Mostly, he had been stacking shelves and cleaning and running after the nurses, but sometimes, late at night when the ER was the busiest and there weren't enough staff to calm the bleeding, crying masses, Jack would end up bustling between people, rubbing at shoulders and whispering reassurances.

He did that now; using all of his experience to quell the fear visible in Spidey's shaking hands. Whether the tremors were from his extensive injuries, crashing adrenaline, or real fear, Jack didn't know.

"I bet Marissa has kids' toys hidden all over this place," Jack began. He enjoyed this tactic. Reassuring babbling, he called it. It was effective. As he spoke, he smoothed gentle hands over Spidey's arms. "Moms always end up shoving toys around the house, especially the living room. When my older brother had kids, he completely refused to buy any of those brightly coloured storage containers, said it was too domestic, but by the time my nephew was two, there were at least three of them beneath the TV."

Spidey wasn't leaning so obviously away from Jack anymore. "There's some on the bookshelf," he said, almost shyly. "Full of plastic cars. Saw it on the way in."

"You don't miss a trick, do you?" Spidey stiffened, as though worried he'd given too much away, but Jack just continued smoothly. "Parenthood is terrifying, I tell you. It sneaks up on you. I get shivers whenever I use the bathroom at my brother's house; there is a mountain of tiny rubber ducks in the bathtub. A _mountain_."

Spidey laughed beneath the mask, the sound breathy and quiet. It warmed Jack's heart. "They're just kids, man."

"It's scary," Jack insisted, smiling. Spidey was going limp under his careful hands. "Can you turn onto your front for me?"

Spidey froze, and leaned away.

"I just want to fix your back, okay?" Spidey didn't move. "Please? I won't hold you down or anything. I'm just going to check over the bandages and clean you up."

Hesitantly, movements slow, Spidey turned onto his front. Jack was careful, impossibly gentle, as he dipped the cloth into the bowl of lukewarm water, and dabbed lightly at the wound spread over the hero's back.

When Marissa came back, weighed down with more supplies, she found Jack chatting about inane subjects, Spidey a puddle of co-operative goo under his hands.

"Are you," Marissa began. "Are you two discussing _gardening?_ "

"It's important," Jack said, deadpan. Marissa stared at him. Jack laughed at her expression, and moved away from the couch. "Okay, Spidey, I'm all finished."

Spidey slowly turned back over on his side, now facing Jack, seeming to relax a bit more into the couch.

A few moments of quiet silence followed, before Marissa spoke up. "Here, get some of this into him, it's only for kids and teens, but it's the best I could do," she said, as she handed Jack a bottle of liquid pain killers. "And give him something to eat, he must be hungry," she added, nudging at the sandwiches as she dumped other medicines on the table, before heading off somewhere else in the house. She knew Spidey didn't trust her as much as Jack, and didn't want to get in the way.

Spidey watched Jack as he brought the small bottle to his face, reading the label. "Ha, strawberry flavored, it should taste nice. Although, it's a little out of your age range, but oh well," he babbled, as he took off the lid and began to pour a little more than the suggested amount in it.

"Not necessarily," Spidey whispered, and then froze as he realized what he'd said.

Jack stopped, before his head snapped round to look Spidey directly in his masked face. "You—you're…" He paused, finding the words to say through his surprise, "are you… young?" he finally asked, his face that of absolute shock and bewilderment.

Spidey curled himself a little tighter on the couch.

"No, hey, it's alright, it's alright. Just..." He took in a big breath. "Wow. Wasn't expecting that," he said, looking at the vigilante searchingly, an odd protective concern coming over him. "Anyway," he suddenly said, changing the subject, sensing Spidey's discomfort, "we'd better get this into you. It'll help with the pain, if only a little." He reached out a hand to lift Spidey's head. He was slow at first, mindful of Spidey's previous reactions, but was surprised when Spidey stayed still this time, and allowed him to cradle his head.

"Right, ok, you wanna—you wanna lift your mask again?" he asked nervously, motioning to said mask. Spidey seemed to contemplate his question, before he spoke.

"Might as well," he said tiredly, "not like you haven't seen my jaw before." He then reached up and pulled the mask away from his mouth.

Jack gently lifted his head a little higher, before moving the lid of medicine forward. Spidey opened his mouth and allowed Jack to pour it in, before swallowing it down, finding the taste was indeed pleasant.

"There, that wasn't so bad," Jack said, replacing the lid to the bottle and putting it on the low table. "Would you like something to eat? Let's see what we've got here," he then went on to say in a friendly, talkative manner, as he unwrapped one of the sandwiches, taking a look inside. "Ham and cheese with some tomato. What do you say, Spidey? Would you like a ham, cheese and tomato sandwich?"

Spidey was just silent, almost appearing to be studying him. Why, Jack wasn't sure.

"I don't know about you, but I'll take that as a yes," he replied. "Come on, you're gonna need to sit up a bit." He moved closer to Spidey, and tried to help him sit up gently. Spidey obeyed, lifting himself up a little, but he found himself way to exhausted, and immediately began to fall back down. "Whoa, whoa, it's alright, you're alright," Jack coaxed, as he moved to brace Spidey, leaning him on his side as he also sat on the couch, with an arm around his shoulders. "There, that better?"

Spidey just grunted in reply, finding himself panting slightly from exhaustion. God, he felt so hot.

"Hey, hey, buddy, you're alright, you're okay," Jack soothed, rubbing Spidey's shoulders slightly as he settled down. "Here, have something to eat, it'll help you feel better." He moved the sandwich in front of Spidey's mouth. It took a few seconds, but Spidey finally took a tentative bite out of the meal. "Good. Good buddy, good," Jack encouraged, as he slowly ate the sandwich.

When he was done, Jack took the forgotten bottle still held in one of Spidey's hands, and brought it to Spidey's lips. "Come, you need to drink. You're dehydrated," he said, with a slight edge of concern, and he felt relief when Spidey took a few sips without protesting.

Moving carefully, he laid Spidey back down on the couch, before getting up and stretching, also feeling tired himself.

It was at that moment, which Marissa walked back into the room. "Hey, you done? How's he doing?" she asked, taking a glance at the much more relaxed looking red and blue form.

"Better, much better," Jack replied, with a touch of pride in his tone.

"I can hear you, ya know?" Spidey piped up, tiredly. Jack laughed.

"Yeah, we know, buddy. We know," he replied, humorously, but not without kindness.

Marissa nodded. "Good," she said, before moving over to sit in a chair. "What a day," she sighed, relieved to be sitting down.

"Tell me about it," Jack agreed, as he sat on the edge of the coffee table. "Not every day you nearly get blown up by a bomb."

This seemed to spark some recognition from Spidey, and he shifted slightly, memories beginning to come back into his exhausted, muddled brain.

"Well, if it wasn't for this little guy, we'd both be dead. For that, we thank you," Marissa replied, directing the last part at Spidey, who was silently following the conversation. He nodded in response, too tired to do much else. This seemed to spark a small smile across Marissa's lips.

"Yeah, he's a good guy. Aren't you, Spidey?" Jack said, giving Spidey a friendly smile. Spidey couldn't reply anymore though, as he was feeling too hot, breathing slightly heightened and panting. He let out a low, soft groan.

Jack instantly straightened up, eyes becoming concerned. "Spidey?" he asked. When he received no obvious reply, he got up, and moved back towards the vigilante.

Spidey felt a gentle hand brush his forehead, and couldn't help but lean into it slightly, his eyes now closed from tiredness.

"Oh, he's really hot!" Jack said, as he looked back at Marissa, concerned.

"Use one of the clean cloths; you need to cool him down. The heat from the fire has probably raised his body temperature too much," she ordered, also appearing concerned, even though she bit it back more than Jack did—not showing it as much. He quickly looked on the table for a clean cloth. Finding one, he snatched it up, before pouring some cool water onto it, and turning back towards the hero.

"Wha—what do I do?" he asked, upon noticing Spidey was covered in spandex, therefore he couldn't reach the skin.

"Just move the suit away from his jaw and neck as much as possible and dampen his skin. A lot of blood flow moves through there anyway, so it should help," she responded, and Jack quickly did what was asked.

Reaching forward, he gently peeled the spandex away from as much of Spidey's neck as possible, before gently placing the cloth over it.

Spidey sighed the instant he felt the blissful coolness touch his skin, and leaned his head back slightly, wanting more.

Jack obliged by gently dabbing the cloth all around the vigilante's neck, making sure he covered the back of his neck and jaw, re-wetting it when it started to become dry. Spidey instantly felt the burning sickness within him ease, and the consuming heat begin to fade, his breath already beginning to even out.

"There you go buddy, you like that?" Jack said with a smile, noticing Spidey's response, and continued to happily cool Spidey's neck, his caring instincts kicking in.

They stayed like that for quite some time, not an ounce of protest coming from the hero—a startling change from the half-coherent, arguing mess he'd been in the back seat of their cruiser—before Spidey suddenly yawned.

He opened up his mouth wide, showing off his teeth and pink tongue—Jack happening to notice the lack of sharp fangs or spidery teeth—before snapping it shut, sticking his tongue out momentarily, and swallowing.

Jack's eyebrows rose; logically, he knew the hero was likely a regular person underneath the spandex, but somehow he expected something different. Something else beneath the mask—inhuman or visibly dangerous or grotesque. Something that warranted the hate directed at Spider-Man.

"Ok, that was adorable. I'm surprised at just how "non-menacing" he is," Marissa suddenly said, and Jack couldn't help but burst out into a laugh as he continued to gently dab at the hero's throat.

It didn't take long after that, for Spidey to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

"Wow, I think he's asleep," Jack whispered quietly, as he noticed Spidey go limp and relaxed, his breathing deep and even.

"Really?" Marissa said, looking up from the magazine she'd started reading. Jack could hear the hint of a smile in her voice. "Never thought that'd happen."

"I know. Guess he's just a big softy underneath all that heroic strength and toughness," he giggled, moving the cloth gently around Spidey's chin.

"If you say so," Marissa replied.

"Oh come on, just look at him, all relaxed and cute—"

"Yeah when he's _sleeping_ maybe, but you saw what he was like in the car, all frantic and dangerous. Don't trust him too much. He's still a superhuman vigilante, you know," Marissa protested, cutting him off, as she put down her magazine and reached for the TV remote.

Jack huffed. "Well, I don't believe her; you're harmless, aren't you, Spidey?" he said to the sleeping form's masked face, as he took the cloth away and rested the back of his fingers against Spidey's skin, as gentle as a feather, checking his temperature. Satisfied, he pulled the spandex back over the hero's neck, tucking in the seams.

Marissa just shook her head at him, and switched to the news channel. Instantly, a breaking headline was splayed across the screen.

" _Barely an hour ago, a bomb went off at a bank in downtown Manhattan as a group of thugs wearing balaclavas attempted to rob the building, taking several hostages. The culprit died at the scene, but luckily no one else was killed, due to the intervention of the local hero, Spider-Man. Unfortunately, things didn't go as smoothly as hoped, as Spider-Man was injured in the blast saving the life of young police officer, Jack Stevensons. Warning, the images we are about to show you may disturb some viewers."_

Jack turned around from his place perched on the edge of the couch, to stare at the images from earlier that day now being played on the screen.

He watched himself as he was pressed against the car, the same figure holding him there that was now currently snoozing peacefully next to him, his back ripped up and bloody, officers and paramedics rushing to try and pull him away. A pang of hurt formed in his throat as he watched Spidey panicking and screaming, his past self calming him, whispering to the hero as the paramedics got to work. It looked much worse when he watched it back like this, the full brunt of what had happened hitting him.

The scene ended with him carrying Spidey to his car, he and Marissa taking off with him.

He couldn't help but look back down at the sleeping form as silence filled the house.

 _"_ _No one knows where the hero was taken, or if he's ok, leaving many New Yorkers deeply concerned for Spidey's current wellbeing,"_ the newsreader finished. Marissa turned off the TV.

They shared a look of sadness, before Jack realized that now every cop in the city knew what they'd done. But he couldn't worry about that right now; he had a sleeping Spidey to watch over.

* * *

It was a few hours later, and they had been chatting softly (so as not to wake the hero), eating some sandwiches themselves, before Marissa disappeared into the house again to do something else. What, Jack didn't know; probably something to do with the kids before they got home.

He was just walking back into the living room after getting himself a cup of coffee, when he stopped. The couch the vigilante had been lying on for the past few hours was empty, a note lying on the edge.

Carefully putting down his coffee, he walked around to pick up the note.

 _Thank-you,_ it simply read. There was a shaky doodle of a spider drawn at the bottom.

Jack looked up to find one of the windows was hanging open.

Shaking his head to himself, he safely pocketed the note, and reached over to pull the window closed.

* * *

 **Updates will continue to be sporadic and a little longer than we'd like. Because this is co-written, there's a lot of time consuming emailing. Thanks everyone for being amazing and patient! :) Buckle in for increasing levels of Spidey/NYC :)  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hiya! Thanks for being so incredibly patient and sticking with us :) We'd now like to present to you the next chapter, whooohoooo! I'm really excited to show you guys this, so I hope you enjoy :D**

* * *

Dorian had assumed he would run into _less_ trouble when he was off-duty. Of course, he had forgotten that this was _New York._ In this sprawling metropolis, trouble would find you whether or not you were prepared. And most of the time, you really, _really_ weren't prepared.

Take now, for example.

His daughter's wet face was pressed into his neck. He could feel Sammy's hitched sobs, her tiny chest rising and falling against his own. He cradled her close, one arm under her, the other supporting her head.

"Dad," murmured his son, Alex, at his side. He was worrying the hem of his t-shirt, eyes flitting around. " _Dad_!"

"I know. It's—it's going to be okay," Dorian said. He didn't know if everything would, in fact, be okay, but his son was breathing heavily, eyes wide, clearly terrified. For his son, Dorian would lie.

He was a police officer, but he was off-duty, without his gun or comm, and he had a terrified ten year old and an armful of crying toddler to protect. In this situation, Dorian was defenseless. 911 had already been called a dozen times over, but emergency services couldn't get onto the bridge. There was a ten car pile-up on one end of the bridge, the other end blocked by a snarling, spitting beast.

No one had been killed, thankfully. The monster had climbed the bridge's upper structural supports like an off-shot of King Kong. The frightening sight had distracted enough drivers—hence the ten car pile-up—but it had also given people warning, allowed them to abandon their cars and flee in the opposite direction.

Fortunately, the monster hadn't been interested in the screaming New Yorkers. Instead, it dropped onto the road and focused on the cars, stacking them together like building blocks. It had formed a nest out of warped steel and cracked windscreens, burrowed at the centre of the stolen cars. Dorian's own pick-up truck was sat by the monster's right elbow.

Still, Dorian had his _children_ with him, and masses of similarly scared New Yorkers pressed around him, and no way of getting to safety—a severe car crash on one side, a monstrous beast that might turn murderous on the other.

"Dad!"

Dorian pressed a reassuring hand on Alex's baseball cap. "It's okay, remember? We're going to be fine—"

"No, Dad! _Look_!"

Dorian followed his son's pointed finger, and felt his blood run cold. He'd abandoned his pick-up as soon as he'd seen the monster—his car was insured, the only thing that really mattered was the safety of his children—but in his panic, he'd forgotten about his napping dog, asleep in the tray of the pick-up truck.

Sammy looked out across the sea of hastily stopped cars, and gasped. "Daddy," she said, pulling at his shirt collar. "Daddy, it's got Blue!"

His dog had woken up and was barking at the monster. The beast had ignored her so far, but when it placed its arm close enough to the pet, Blue had lashed out and bitten the monster.

Both of his children were in a panic, Alex standing on his tip-toes, Sammy struggling in his grip. Both were screaming across the area, panicked; "Blue! Blue! No, _Blue_!"

The monster picked up Blue with one clawed hand, and threw her across the bridge without mercy. Dorian could do nothing but keep one hand on his daughter, the other clasped tight around the shirt collar of his son to stop them from rushing over, trying in vain to help their pet, and risk antagonising the hulking monster anymore.

As Blue disappeared over the side of the bridge, Alex slumped in Dorian's grip. There was no way the dog could've survived such a drop.

"I'm sorry," Dorian choked out. He tried to bundle Alex closer, but he shook Dorian off, ducking his head to hide the tears prickling at his eyes. Dorian felt useless. "I'm—I'm so sorry, son."

"Blue!" chirped Sammy happily. "Blue, _Blue_!"

"Shut up," Alex said, hands shaking, focused steadily on the pavement. "Shut up, Sam! Shut up!"

Dorian opened his mouth to reprimand Alex, but he was cut off as the crowd around them burst into gasps and elated cheers.

"Blue!" Sammy continued. "Spider! Spider-bug! Bluuuue!"

For the second time that day, Dorian felt all the air leave him in a whoosh.

Tears forgotten, Alex was once more straining against Dorian's grip, jumping up and down in his sneakers. "It's Spider-Man!" Alex shouted. "Spider-Man's here to save Blue!"

He was right. There Spider-Man was, red booted feet planted on pavement, Blue bundled in his arm like a baby.

Spider-Man looked over at the crowd, and waved. Several people waved back. Another wave of cheers and whoops rang through the crowd. Spidey raised his voice, near-shouting, and asked, "Yo, anyone lose a dog?"

Alex waved his hands in the air, trying to jump onto a nearby up-turned car to be seen above the heads of the adults around him. "WE DID! WE LOST A DOG!"

But Spidey couldn't see them over the crowd, couldn't hear them over the din of cheering New Yorkers, and the roaring monster, and the distant sounds of police sirens. He placed the dog in the safety of a car, and rushed toward the monster, web-shooters raised.

It was an amazing sight. Dorian had no experience with super-humans, and relied largely on the opinions of his colleagues about the subject, but this—watching the lithe figure dart about, dodging lashed out claws and flipping around, shooting web-shooters and immobilising the beast almost effortlessly—was something else entirely. Something almost awe inspiring.

"Woah," Alex said, word ghosted out on a breathy exhale.

"Woah," Dorian agreed. In the afternoon sun, the red and blue of Spidey's spandex suit glinted.

People began to rush forward as soon as the beast was webbed up, hasty to move toward their cars, or to exit the bridge. Dorian lost sight of Spidey in that time, too busy keeping both eyes on his children.

When Dorian next saw Spider-Man, the hero was crouched down on the road, hand tangled in Blue's fur.

He stood there, just staring at the hero in wonder as he continued to pat Blue—scratching her ears and tickling her chin, the dog grinning up at him.

"Blue!" Sammy suddenly yelled. Blue instantly turned in their direction, before running into his children's loving, excited arms.

Dorian was too disoriented to do or say anything, standing there in complete shock at the events that had just transpired, until several police officers and emergency workers managed to break onto the bridge. They raced to the scene and comforted people who were panicking. But what caught his eye through his spaced out thoughts was Spider-Man suddenly going tense and looking up at the new arrivals.

Without waiting another second, the hero turned and began to make his way hastily towards the edge of the bridge.

Just before he could swing over the side though, Blue took off out of his children's arms, tearing towards the hero with a speed Dorian didn't know she possessed.

What happened next was a blur, as one minute Spidey was perched with an arm extended, ready to swing away, and the next he was on the ground, with Blue licking all over his masked face.

"Oooh! Hello again there, pup! Now, I know I saved you, but daddy Spidey's got to head off now," he heard the hero say, before he tried to gently push the dog off of him. The effort was in vain, though, as Blue just got even more determined, practically sitting on top of the hero's torso in a playful manner, excitement growing and tail wagging—licking all over the hero's lenses and neck.

"No, no, I've got to go! Oh, come on, really?" the hero babbled, followed by a bunch of grumbles, as he continued to try and shoo the dog off. They were starting to catch the attention of the crowd around them.

Dorian wasn't entirely sure what to do, standing there helplessly looking on, before a funny sound came from the hero.

He listened, confused, leaning in a little closer to find that Spidey was… giggling. The happy noise began to vibrate from Spidey as he started rolling around on the ground, Blue having won the battle, licking him all over, reducing Spidey to a puddle of laughing goo.

"Blue! Blue! Bug-man!" his kids suddenly yelled, and before he could react, were running towards the duo on the ground, leaping on top of them and cuddling and tickling the excited dog.

Dorian couldn't help but stand there with his mouth open. He stared at the mass of limbs rolling around on the ground, excitable giggles emerging from the pile, along with red and blue flailing limbs. A number of curious and excited New Yorkers had begun to surround the scene, watching the unusual sight unfold in front of them. Despite how innocent this was, Dorian began to worry about the extra company.

"Sam, Alex," he said, as quietly as he could, moving forward a bit towards them.

"Yeah, Dad?" Alex said, sitting up, now holding the dog in his arms, Sammy quickly following suit. Before Dorian had a chance to say anything though, a third figure sat up too. And there was Spidey, sitting next to his kids, looking right at him.

"Why, hello there," he said cheerily. "You must be the owner of the happy younglings here?"

Dorian just stared, at a loss for words. He was highly conscious of the smiling New Yorkers speaking in excitable, hushed whispers around them.

"Well, you've certainly raised some happy piles of joy here, pup included. She just wouldn't let me leave without saying thanks, could you, Blue?" the hero continued, looking down at the dog once more in Alex's arms, giving her a pat. Her tail wagged again, big brown puppy eyes looking straight into the hero's bug ones affectionately.

Dorian couldn't help but huff a proud breath, as his chest warmed. "Yeah, they are quite the happy bunch, aren't they?" He smiled.

Spidey looked up at him, and he instantly felt something stir in his heart, a warm feeling of connection, and something else, growing from deep within him—an attachment to the hero. He found himself openly grinning down at Spidey's masked lenses as his chest swelled with happiness, before the moment was broken by an urgent and rather harsh officer storming up through the crowd behind them. Dorian instantly recognized him; Officer Morgan—one of his colleagues.

" _YOU!_ " Morgan yelled. "YOU'RE NOT GETTING AWAY THIS TIME!" Dorian watched in surprise as the relatively young officer immediately drew his gun, pointing it at Spider-Man's chest while retrieving a pair of handcuffs with his other hand.

Spidey stared up at the man. His eyes almost seemed to Dorian to suddenly become big and innocent…alarmed.

This didn't sway the officer, though. Morgan continued to point the gun in Spidey's direction, with Dorian's kids sitting right next to the hero—in the line of fire.

"MORGAN, STOP! My kids are there!" Dorian practically screamed, as his training took over, and he lunged for Morgan, ripping the gun out of his grip.

Spidey had grown extremely tense, starting slightly when he yelled and removed the gun from his colleague, crouching in a position showing he was ready to run. His head was moving between the two in apparent confusion, while his kids partly hid behind him, watching the confrontation in fear.

"What were you _thinking_?! My kids are _right there_ , you could have shot them!" Dorian yelled angrily at Morgan, looking him directly in the face.

"Well, it's not my fault! Maybe you should keep your kids in better company, instead of letting them hang around with freaks!" Morgan retaliated. Dorian couldn't help but be hurt by this accusation.

"How dare you?! And on what orders are you following anyway? Why are you pointing a gun at him?" he asked, and couldn't help but be slightly curious for the answer.

"Why? Because he's a menace! A vigilante! It's _illegal!_ He's working outside the law! Not to mention he's some sort of creature," he said, and Dorian didn't like the way he looked at the red and blue hero. He caught sight of Spidey's breath hitch in what almost seemed like fear.

 _Fear, in Spider-Man? What exactly was going on here?_ Dorian thought, as he saw the hero visibly gulp.

"Daddy? What's going on?" Sammy asked nervously, from where she remained seated on the ground. He noticed Spidey appeared to have positioned himself slightly in front of his children. _Protectively?_ Dorian wasn't sure.

"It's alright, Sammy. You and your brother just stay still, okay?" he answered, keeping an eye on how several other cops had moved in, hands hovering around gun holsters. The previously enthusiastic crowd had also shrunk backwards, moving away from the escalating situation, with most of them searching for their misplaced cars and belongings, not wanting to be too close to the commotion.

"Morgan, this is not right, son. It's against your orders. Being a cop does not include endangering civilians, especially children, and I don't think the chief would be very happy if he heard about this, so let's just calm down and deal with this properly, yeah? As far as I can see this man's done nothing wrong, and he just happened to have saved our dog, so—" Dorian tried to calm Morgan down, but he was suddenly cut off as Morgan's anger flared.

"Oh, not you, too! Why does everyone suddenly like him? I won't have it! I'm dealing with this now, even if I'm the only one," he yelled, and before Dorian could stop him, snatched the gun back, raising it in Spidey's direction and pulling the trigger.

"NO!" Dorian yelled as the trigger went off. He heard Alex protest, moving towards the vigilante in a rush, not understanding what was going on. There was a flurry of movement, and a sudden whimpering sound from Spidey, before everything went deathly quiet. Dorian only just managed to get the gun back out of Morgan's grip before turning back towards the direction the shot was fired in, with a look of panic on his face.

It turned out that both his kids had failed to move away out of fear at the sight of shots being fired at Spider-Man, and the hero had shifted himself directly in front of them so they wouldn't get hurt. As a result, the bullet had grazed his side, a small puddle of dark liquid pooling in the area as Spidey hissed.

"Sam! Alex! Are you alright?!" Dorian yelled, as he ran over to check his children, who were now as white as sheets in response to the reckless and irresponsible cop's actions. They both cuddled into him in fright, tears running down Alex's face, before they were all distracted by the most unexpected of events.

Blue suddenly let out a terrible whimpering sound, taking off in the direction of the injured hero, who was sitting on the concrete applying pressure to the wound. Although it wasn't serious, it still looked painful, and Blue seemed to understand.

Dorian watched as the hero's lenses followed Blue closely as she continued to whimper, moving around his form, before she reached his side. Spidey's head ducked down as Blue proceeded to sniff his wound very intently, and everyone seemed to hold their breath as the dog did so, waiting for her response to his unnatural, inhuman blood.

After what seemed like several moments, the dog decided that the hero was in no way a threat—accepting his unique scent—and nudged her nose against Spidey's hand that covered the wound. Blue then whimpered once again, and laid her head against the hero's uninjured side. She scraped a paw over her snout, whining. Almost instinctively, Spidey placed a reassuring hand on the dog's head.

Morgan became noticeably still and silent, shocked, confused, as he watched the dog embrace the vigilante. After a few seconds pause, he moved, taking a step forward.

Blue immediately growled defensively as she snarled, more viciously than Dorian had ever seen before. Morgan immediately stopped and stepped backwards, at a loss for words. Spidey seemed to have other ideas though; he shifted, gently moving Blue off of him as he proceeded to cover his wound with webbing. He hissed again, before slowly standing up. He gave Dorian a look which seemed to stare right into him, before suddenly taking off and swinging away.

Holding on tightly to his kids, Dorian turned to Morgan. "How about you _never_ act like that again, and we'll never again talk of this, ok? And _maybe_ then I'll forgive you, and you won't get _fired_. Is that clear!?"

Morgan stared off in the direction the vigilante had left in for a second, before very slowly nodding his head, too shocked and lost in his thoughts to say anything else.

Dorian eyed the younger cop, before turning away. He was determined to get his kids home and retrieve his now most likely useless truck, hoping he got the message across, with thoughts of one mysterious vigilante and the unusual events that had just transpired running through his head.

* * *

(Several weeks later)

The workings of the city went on as usual, people busily walking to and fro, lights flashing on brightly coloured signs, and cars honking their horns in frustration. It was a typical sight if one looked over the city from above, but if you gazed close enough, you might just notice something odd, a strangely dressed figure sat in a precarious position on a rooftop.

Peter dangled his red and blue legs over the side of a tall building, right at the very top, his outfit standing out in his secluded position, making him hard to miss from the air. His police scanner was softly mumbling on the concrete surface next to him, while his hands fiddled with a web shooter, messing expertly with its innards.

He was eager to get to work for the night, waiting for some crime or robbery to pop up, so he could go and get some well anticipated action.

The last rays of sun were gently setting over the horizon, bathing the city skyline in deep reds and oranges. It was quite the sight. It was a shame not many people could enjoy it.

Peter sighed as he looked up at the lingering, glowing orb—such a peaceful sight. The evening breeze brushed past him, a slight chill starting to set in.

He'd been up here for a while now, patiently waiting for something to come up on the NYPD Police Scanner, but he was starting to get restless.

Suddenly, as if it had heard his thoughts, a request for backup came in over the frequency.

"Backup needed, backup needed, corner of South Street. Group of….ahhhh… _ninjas_ attacking a restaurant. Attempted assassination, immediate assistance required" came the slightly husky voice of what sounded like a middle-aged man through the scanner.

"Ahhh, finally!" Peter said in relief, as he finally had something to put his mind to. He quickly put his web shooter back together and strapped it to his wrist, standing up and pocketing his phone. He stretched his muscles, preparing to leap into free fall off the building and swing in the required direction, before the scanner crackled again, and the man's voice came through a second time.

"Backup required, backup required! _Immediate_ help needed. Ninjas too powerful, repeat, ninjas too powerful. We can't stand against them!" he said, voice becoming raised and panicked.

"Ninjas...? I'm coming!" Peter said to himself, hoping they'd receive his unheard message, before pushing off the building. The wind blew past his stretched out form as he soared towards the ground, whistling heavily in his ears. He shot off a web and started to swing himself along, when his scanner went off yet a third time.

"Spider-Man! Spider-Man, can you hear me!? Spidey, are you there? Please, we need help, we need help now! These ninjas are too powerful. We can't handle them; they're cutting us down. Help!"

Peter nearly let go of his webbing as he wobbled. The terribly frightened and panicked last minute request directed at him startled him so much he nearly lost balance, quickly having to correct it. His mind swam with an explosion of sudden thoughts, muddled with shock, confusion and a touch of fear. But only one thought prevailed—he had to rescue those who had called, the sudden desperate need to save them overwhelming his thoughts. He quickened his pace, swinging through the city with tremendous speed.

* * *

Peter landed atop a light pole the minute he got there, surveying the scene in front of him. The policeman wasn't kidding, there really _were_ ninjas, dressed in all black with masks and lots and lots of sharp looking weapons. It was obvious they were sinister; their current actions said everything as they attacked the cops without mercy.

Why were they here, outside of Hell's Kitchen? The Hand and its employment of silent, unbeatable ninjas were Daredevil's enemies. Not Spider-Man's. Not the innocent police officers that were being bloodily cut down by the people in all black.

He didn't have time to think about this though, cause it was right at that moment that Peter spotted a middle-aged officer being backed up to a wall—a middle-aged officer who was screaming his alter ego's name in a panic into his walkie-talkie, a ninja star heading right for his heart.

Peter moved on instinct, shooting a web and pulling a manhole cover to him as he leaped off the street lamp towards the officer with lightning speed.

He slammed down right in front of the man, deflecting the weapon mere seconds before it took his life. Then, he used the manhole cover to slam into two ninjas as he swung it forward, knocking them down, before deflecting several throwing stars with it as their attention was drawn to him.

There was a flurry of movement as Peter took action. Kicking, punching, flipping, leaping; he put the current ninjas to shame as he took them out in a whizzing blur of red and blue limbs. Within seconds it was over, as Peter landed in the centre of the mess, form crouched and low, about a dozen unconscious webbed-up ninjas surrounding him.

"What? Were the A Team busy tonight?" Peter asked through rough pants, toeing at a webbed, prone man.

Silence followed his words. It filled the street as cops slowly started coming out of hiding, staring at the scene before them, while pedestrians caught in the crossfire gaped at the famous red and blue form in both shock and relief. One face in particular was the most taken by surprise though, as the middle-aged cop he'd saved simply stood with his mouth literally hanging open, too overwhelmed by what had just transpired to do anything else.

After making sure all the ninjas were down, Peter took a couple more deep breaths before turning round and facing the man, form now tall and straight.

"Are you alright?" he simply said.

The man stared at him for a second longer before slowly nodding.

Peter sighed heavily in response. "Good, that's good," he said, looking down a bit before looking up again.

The cop smiled a little at Peter, before suddenly going pale and moaning.

Peter ran forward in the blink of an eye the minute he started falling forward and gently grabbed the officer, bracing him against himself.

The man took a few deep, grounding breaths before he seemed to recover from his near faint and stood up a bit. He looked into Peter's lenses, and then seemed to become a little uncertain for a moment as he realised he was being supported by Spidey, but it only lasted a second before he broke into a big smile.

"Thank you, Spider-Man," he said with true sincerity. His eyes shone with gratitude.

"No problem, sir," Peter replied, seeing a slight look of affection spread across the man's face. Then, remembering the current situation, Peter looked back round at the surrounding people. His heart sank. Police officers were laid out on the ground wounded and bleeding, other officers trying to comfort them before the ambulance got there, while some set up yellow tape around the area, blocking off the scene.

Peter swallowed, realising he hadn't quite made it in time to help everyone. If only he could have been a little faster, a little better, he may have been able to stop this before anyone got hurt.

Swallowing a second time—forcing down the self-destructive guilt that flooded his being—he turned around again as the officer he was still supporting tried to get his attention.

"Hey, Spidey? It's not your fault; you did your best and got here as soon as you could. Don't take it out on yourself."

"How did you know…?" Peter cut in.

The man laughed. "I'd know a guy blaming himself anywhere. I also used to do that, too. Back when I first became a cop many years ago, lots of bad things happened that I couldn't stop, and I always took the blame. But I came to learn that I couldn't do everything; I wasn't perfect, and it wasn't something that depended on me. You'll be alright, Spidey, it's not the end of the world. In fact, it's nice to see such a response from you up close. Maybe what they say isn't true about you after all," the man said, giving him a smile.

Peter just stared at him. "You're… you're not what I was expecting."

The man chuckled slightly at him. "Yes. You're not what I was expecting either, son. But then you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, and that's why I'd like to give you this." He suddenly reached down into the pocket of his uniform, and pulled out a small, fancy looking phone and headset. Peter's gut instantly dropped—it was the program they'd wanted him to do with the police. A spike of fear spread through him, and he looked up in dread.

"I'm a part of the program to connect you with us, and I'd like you to take this," he told the hero, motioning to the said device. "Forget all the rules and stuff, I'm just going to throw what the mayor said away," he quickly added, sensing Peter's unease. "This will just be used for the police to communicate with you, just like what was needed today, and for you to communicate back. No rules, just for the purpose of saving more lives," he finished, and his voice had obtained a gentle, kind tone.

Peter stared at him for a second, before hesitantly reaching for the small device. It was quite nice, sleek black with red highlights, probably to match his suit.

"I…." he started to say, looking up, but the man was gone, walking back over to his fellow officers.

Peter stood there, headset in hands, just staring at it, looking lost. He swallowed, hand tightening around the device, before finally swinging away. What was he getting himself into? He had absolutely no idea.

* * *

Stopping a few blocks away, he perched on top of a low roof, crouched there, and looked at the device in his open hand. A raging battle was going through his mind. He considered just throwing it away, or crushing it. But for some reason he couldn't bring himself to do that, something in the back of his mind prevented him, something about what that cop said, about saving more people's lives.

After having a stare off with the device, large bug lenses gazing intensely at it with the reflections of the now dark city glowing on the glossy surface, he made his decision. Curling his gloved fingers gently around the device again, he took off, headed for home, phone kept safe in his tender grip.

* * *

 **We've been working hard these past few days, so the next updates should come fairly regularly :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello :) Here's chapter 4 :)**

* * *

Peter took a deep, grounding breathe. Nausea, that's what he felt as he once again found himself sitting perched amongst the tops of skyscrapers on a shiny roof. His leg shook relentlessly where it was placed up on the surface. His other hung over the side, while visible shivers racked through his skinny form.

He couldn't believe he was doing this, he _really_ couldn't believe he was doing this. He stared down at the innocent little phone and headset in his gloved hand, as it seemed to once again torment him with its presence.

 _It'll help save more lives,_ he repeated to himself over and over—the only thing stopping him from dropping the device to the deep, dark depths below.

He'd combed over the thing for any form of bugs last night, half expecting that to be the conniving route the police would take, but had come up with nothing. Zilch. Not a single sign of betrayal. He'd been confused, at first, shocked, but quickly got over it, as he then made certain that nobody would ever, _ever_ be tracking it if they should decide to change their minds. Only once he was certain it was safe, did he slip back into his house.

He let out a massive sigh. _Just do it, get it over with,_ he thought to himself. He knew that the longer he put this off, the harder and more unpleasant it would be to do. So, biting his lip, he lifted up his mask, and slipped the set underneath, placing the earpieces round his ears, and winding the funny little microphone round his neck under his chin. He then placed the specially made, fancy phone device safely in the belt of his suit, and turned it on. Instantly, it wirelessly connected to the earpieces and mic, with little lights lighting up.

He sighed again (now that it was all working) and pulled the mask back down.

"Okay, okay, you can do this, Spidey. You can do this. It'll be fine; everything'll be fine. Oh, who am I kidding? Since when were things ever, fine?" he mumbled to himself, masking his uncertainty with his overly chipper voice.

Now it was time for the waiting.

He shifted his position so he was sitting cross-legged, and took in another deep breath, letting it out with a whoosh, chest rising and falling as he did so.

He waited, and waited, sometimes even checking the phone to make sure it was on and working, but finding that everything was in order.

Eventually, at two a.m., he gave up, switching off the device and swinging home, disappointed tiredness hanging over him. But somewhere in the back of his mind he also felt relief, relief that no one had called for him that night, and that he hadn't had to face working with those, with those…awfully cruel excuses for cops.

Quietly, Peter snuck into his bedroom window, and crawled into the safe comfort of his bed.

* * *

The next night, Peter did the same thing. He found a random building to make his perch, and put on the earpieces and mic, turning them on.

Once again, he waited, sitting as patiently as he could on the ledge. But being a teenage part-spider, exactly how still that was was another matter entirely. He shifted and squirmed, stretching occasionally, and even once looked up at the few visible stars while lying on his back—anything to calm his nerves. He didn't think he'd been so nervous about something before in his life. Those cold, stone-hearted cops a few months or so ago had really messed him up. He wasn't sure he could go near cops again without having a complete freak out. Or could he…? A memory of the two kind policemen who'd helped him after he was caught in that bomb blast came to mind. He shook his head.

He spent several hours mulling over this, before finally going home.

* * *

It was the third night of his new 'occupation'. He had reduced himself to mindlessly counting the red and blue cars moving along, all those stories down below him, if he could even differentiate which ones were red and blue.

Suddenly, his head snapped up at the sound of a nearby scream. _Oh blow it,_ he thought. _I can't just sit here and wait around for the cops, dreading the inevitable. People need my help, and I can't just leave them! The cops will have to call me when they're ready. Although, I'm not surprised none have asked for my help, as they all no doubt hate me, anyway_ , Peter continued miserably, before standing up, giving his shoulders a stretch, and leaping in the direction of the civilian in need.

New York never slept. Crime wouldn't stop with the new addition of this hotline. Whether or not the officers of this city chose to reach out and specifically ask him for his help, Peter had people to protect.

It would be another tiring, fast paced night for the teenager, stopping muggers and plucking drunken party go-ers out of the way of incoming traffic—the earpiece sat silent and unresponsive all night.

* * *

Peter walked down the halls of his school, thick books curled under one arm and his bag slung across his back as he stopped at his locker, putting in the combination. It had been a week since he'd been given the device by that policeman, and no one had contacted him so, naturally, he gave it up.

"Parker!" his name was shouted down the hall.

That sound initially sent shivers down his spine, until a friendly, firm fist bumped his shoulder and none other than Flash Thomson leaned against the lockers beside him.

"How're you doin'? You've been a bit quiet of late, just wanted to make sure you're alright." Those words were highly different to the ones that would have come out of Flash's mouth just six months ago, as Flash had never been this friendly towards Peter before in his life. He was usually quite the opposite.

"I'm fine, Flash," Peter said absentmindedly, as he proceeded to put his books in his locker. Flash studied him searchingly for a moment, before changing the subject.

"Alright, if you say so, man. Hey, have you heard what's going on with Spidey? Apparently the police are now working with him. It's so cool, right?! That guys rad!" Flash said, extremely over-enthusiastically.

 _Oh great,_ Peter thought, as he tried not to show his annoyance at the subject on his face. It was quite ironic that Spider-Man had been the one to change Flash around, but right at this moment, he was the last news topic he wanted to hear about.

"Umm, yeah. Yeah, I have," he practically sighed.

"It's so awesome! I'm so excited about it. It'll be great to see those guys kicking butt together," Flash said, making a fake punch in the air.

That got Peter right in the stomach, and he cracked, spinning around, "What about how the police have been treating Spidey? Practically torturing him? And you want him to work with them?" he exploded, with possibly a little too much hurt.

"Oh chill, Parker. Those are just rumours. There's no proof that they've been hurting Spidey like that. I'm sure they wouldn't. Don't worry, everything's fine, man. You can't believe everything you read. And besides, even if they did, Spidey could take them all easy." He reached over and, annoyingly, ruffled Peter's hair. "You worry too much," he said, before walking off to his friends.

 _I can't believe this_ , Peter practically fumed in his mind; so much of that speech did not sit well with him.

"Peter?"

Peter spun around at the sweet, soft voice, eyes widening slightly, to find Gwen standing behind him with worried eyes.

"G—Gwen," he stuttered in surprise, not expecting her to be there.

"I, um, I wanted to talk to you; I was worried. You seem distant lately, and—and jumpy. I just wanted to know if everything's ok? That you're ok?" she said, seeming to stumble a little over her words.

Peter immediately felt guilty. He'd been ignoring her as of late since the incident with the police, preferring to be alone, but he hadn't thought of the consequences of that.

"Yeah–yeah, I'm good. Thanks—thanks for asking. I, um. I appreciate it," he said, struggling to keep eye contact.

"Peter?" she asked again, placing a half sleeved-covered hand on his shoulder. "The stuff they're saying, that the police did to you, it's not true, is it?" she asked, worried lines creasing her face.

Peter couldn't reply, as he found his throat choked up, his face looking down at the ground.

Gwen let out a giant sigh, and without replying, wrapped him in a big hug. Grateful, he tucked his chin over her shoulder, finding great relief in her offered comfort, if only for a second, before something happened. His enhanced hearing picked up the tiny voices coming from a phone several people were huddled around in the corridor, and he didn't have to hear much, before he took off out the door, leaving behind a very confused Gwen.

* * *

Running down the nearest alley and jumping up on the tops of the buildings, Peter scrambled to make his way out of his clothes, red and blue suit emerging underneath, as he quickly fiddled with his headset, turning it on. Apparently, the police had been trying to contact him for the last forty minutes while he was busy in school without the device on. There was something big going on in the city, and they needed him there.

"This is Spider-Man. I repeat, this is Spider-Man coming in, over," he said, voice obviously puffing as he raced across the rooftops, trying to find higher ground so he could swing.

"Spider-Man, this is Officer Mathews; I read you. We need backup in the city, over." It was obvious the man hated doing this, as Peter could immediately hear the reluctance in his voice. He sounded to be almost grumbling with annoyance, like the words were being forced out of his mouth.

"In the city? Where in the City? Hey, wait!" Peter yelled, but he received no reply.

"Well, fat lot of good that is," he said to himself, feeling angry at the officer's unhelpfulness, but there wasn't much he could do about his relationship with the police right now. People needed his help.

He swung to the tallest skyscraper in the area, perching easily on the top, scanning the area with careful eyes.

Finally, he spotted rising plumes of smoke and bright bursts of colour some dozen buildings away. He swung closer. As he approached, he became aware of the screaming, fleeing civilians, of the sounds of shouting emergency personal, and of the crackle of electricity underpinning all activity.

"The usual suspects, then," Peter said aloud, as he took in the glowing form of Electro, hovering above cracked asphalt. The villain's hands were outspread, blue electricity thrumming along his limbs. The destruction along the street told tales of the rampage the other man must have been on.

A firefighter was one of the first to spot Peter's arrival, visibly slumping with relief. "Spider-Man," called the man, "do you need our hand again, with the hoses—?"

Before Peter could answer, his spider-sense alerted him moments before Electro threw a burst of light at him. He ducked in time, springing up to perch on top of a streetlight.

"'Afternoon, Electro!" Peter greeted. He offered the villain a jaunty, mocking wave. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

Electro growled. Peter easily dodged another ball of electricity.

"You really don't learn, do you?" Peter asked. He darted away from more thrown electricity. It was like a dance, a practiced routine; Electro threw the electricity, Peter threw the quips, everyone around them either fled in terror or stayed to watch the ensuing fight with wide, awed eyes.

"Do I need to spell it out for you every time?" Peter continued. "Dodging. It's a thing I can do. You're kind of slow on the uptake, aren't you?"

"Maybe you can dodge," Electro said lowly, "but _they_ cannot."

Electro turned toward the gathered onlookers. He aimed blue, glimmering hands on a distracted child, who wasn't paying any attention to the superhuman battle waging above her head, concentrating only on her lost parents.

"She," Electro continued, "cannot."

Electro threw electricity. Peter lunged, the space between them vanishing as Peter tackled the villain bodily out of the air.

On the sidewalk, an officer had mirrored Peter's actions, and had hauled the child safely out of the way. The electricity missed the pair, leaving only a blackened smear on the buckling concrete.

One of the cops crouched behind the protective sides of their cars leapt to his feet, shouting, "Morgan!"

"She's okay!" Morgan called back. The little girl was cradled in his arms, and clutching at the man's uniform shirt, sobbing. "I'm okay, too!"

Some of the panic that had clutched at Peter's chest ebbed, relief soothing away the tightness around his heart. It was good to see the two in one piece. Peter cared little for the fact that the officer was Morgan, one of his tormentors among the NYPD. He was still terrified at the thought of him getting hurt—or worse, killed—and grateful for the officer's selfless heroism. The other man looked tired, worn out, but still was able to perceive and save the child when Peter had been too slow.

Morgan's left shirtsleeve was ripped, the hems burned, the skin underneath slightly burnt. A bloody scrape ran along his left cheek, highlighting the action the man had seen that night.

Electro shouted beneath the hero's restraining form, frustration and rage spurring him on. While Peter was momentarily distracted by the girl's safety, Electro threw him off with a ripping pulse of energy.

It was a burning, jarring feeling, like someone had thrown a bucket of lava over his sleeping form to wake him up. His limbs were useless against it, uncooperative in the face of such pain, and he collided against hard asphalt some metres away.

It was both a painful realisation— _don't take your eyes off of the enemy, Parker, you stupid amateur_ —and a disorientating force, scrambling any coherent thoughts on how to stop Electro.

Electro laughed—an ugly, smug sound. "Maybe you can't dodge, after all."

Remnants of energy pulsed through his body. It was distracting, making Peter's muscles spasm even as he dragged himself up. This wasn't an unfamiliar feeling; Peter had fought Electro multiple times before, and he was no stranger to electricity being used as a weapon. After so many encounters with the business end of a taser, of the military-grade weaponry once employed by the police—

Peter was struck again by Electro. He was too tired, his reflexes slowed by fatigue and pain and the memories flickering behind his eyes.

He choked, dragging in ragged, heavy breaths. One hand braced flat against the asphalt, the other clutched to his chest. Against his palm, his heartbeat was erratic, fluttering unevenly against the pulses of energy.

Peter clumsily stood. When Electro attacked once more, Peter's dodge was wobbly, nothing like his usual graceful aerobatics. Uniformed police officers flittered about in his peripheral. The sight of their dark, navy blue sent Peter back to that night all those evenings ago.

His memories were blurry, untrustworthy, but Peter could clearly recall the blinding terror and the insurmountable pain; the way his limbs had spasmed against the ground, back arched, vision unfocused; the cold, detached expressions on the watching officers, waiting to scoop him up after he'd been reduced to nothing more than a twitching pile of useless muscles; the clawing, desperate panic that had fuelled him, pushing him off of that hard ground so he could flee deeper into the city.

But this energy, this pain, was nothing like that night. That night had left Peter shaking and terrified for weeks to come. This should be a mild inconvenience. Electro had gotten in a few lucky shots, that was all.

So why did Peter feel weak and useless? Feel vulnerable, like an exposed nerve, left ripped open in the middle of a New York street?

"HEY, FREAK SHOW!"

Both Peter and Electro looked up. Peter gaped as the policewoman pointed the sloshing nozzle of a firefighter's hose bare inches from the villain's face, and sent the sparking man flying.

Marissa watched impassively, chest heaving, sweaty flyaway curls dropping into her eyes. A cry of cheers erupted from the groups of firefighters, cops, and onlookers, drawing a tired smile from the policewoman.

"You alright, Spidey?" Marissa asked. Her eyes were kind, concerned, just as they once were all those weeks ago, when she had helped Jack haul him back to her house and bandaged him up in the wake of a devastating bomb blast. Peter gave her a jerky nod.

Electro climbed to his feet once more, and Marissa aimed the hose in steady hands, ready to blast the villain once more, even though she knew the move would not work twice.

"Spidey," Marissa called over the stream of water, "I could use some help over here." Her gaze was welcoming and friendly, nothing like the cold, calculating stare of the officers that hurt him so badly. Under her unwavering warmth, the traumatising memories of being electrified began to fade away.

"What, getting tired?" Peter shot back at her, before leaping at Electro. This time, Peter wasn't distracted. This time, Peter didn't let Electro gain the upper hand.

And later, when Electro was struggling fruitlessly in electricity-proof webbing, Peter didn't flinch away from the encroaching wave of officers on the scene. Marissa nodded at him from across the street. Morgan was by the paramedics, being patched up while talking with the little girl's parents.

A blonde officer clapped him on the shoulder, and Peter turned, startled but not afraid. The officer seemed shy and uncomfortable, purposely looking at where officers were hauling Electro away, not making eye contact.

"Thanks, I guess," said the officer gruffly, shrugging.

Peter cocked his head. "For what?"

"For—for coming. I was the one that called you. Officer Matthews."

Peter laughed a little, the sound light and cheery like a bell. This man was thanking him, sincere—albeit embarrassed, clearly stuck in his innate dislike for the supposed vigilante—and meaningful. Peter, coming down from the high of adrenaline, beamed underneath his mask.

"You don't need to thank me," Peter said kindly. "I'll always come if someone calls. If there's danger, I'll help."

Matthews nodded, obviously still a little embarrassed. "You took a few hits," he said, changing the subject, "do you need me to call a paramedic over—"

Peter laughed and stepped away. He really should be getting back to school; third period would be starting soon.

"Thank you, but no. I can barely feel it now, honestly." And it was true—while it had hurt initially, it had faded into a dull, annoying ache deep in his muscles, the sensation chased away by the bustle of activity from safe, unharmed New Yorkers around him, and the genuine gratefulness of the officer before him.

Peter wasn't used to being thanked, but he was discovering that he rather enjoyed it.

* * *

 **Thank you to all our readers for once again being patient. While our updates are a little late, we promise this will not be abandoned. xx**

 **And we're finally making some form of progress with the officers! We've got a long way to go, but step by step, we're getting there.  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**We're back again :) Thanks so much to all who have been supportive, it's much appreciated, we love you guys! And now we hope you enjoy this next chapter. Happy reading :)**

* * *

When John had been saddled with Spider-Man by his boss, he had been furious. Unfortunately, his chief had insisted; they were to go to suspected apartment blocks door to door, to question the residents on the possible whereabouts of a local super-villain. Spider-Man, they had reasoned, was the only one equipped to handle a super-powered criminal, should they find him.

That may be true, but John still despised every moment spent with the vigilante. When they reached the second apartment block, he had ordered Spider-man to wait outside, and to call or come running if there was any sign of villainy. John had strode into the heated building, snow crunching underfoot, leaving Spider-Man waiting in the cool night air.

John had been reluctant to leave Spider-Man by himself. The Bugle's past warnings about the man were running through his head, and he was worried about what the vigilante might do when unattended. John could only hope Spidey wouldn't cause trouble while his temporary handler was out of sight.

John returned to the street later than he'd like, some half hour later. He paused, biting at his lip and peering suspiciously around the street for Spider-Man. The hero was nowhere in sight.

John's hand hovered over his comm, ready to report the vigilante's abandonment of his post, when a blot of colour against the dark bricks caught his eye.

It was a bright yellow sticky note, pasted to the bricks. In a messy scrawl, it read, _Dear Mr. Police Man, I'm at the restaurant next door. Come find me._ There was a hastily drawn spider symbol at the bottom of the note.

John ripped the sticky note off, and marched toward the Italian restaurant beside the apartment block.

As he entered the small building, the bells jingling above the door, John called out angrily, "Where are you, you lazy—?"

John pushed through the plastic curtains covering the entrance, and was hit by the warm aroma of cooked food and a heady mixture of spices. The restaurant was small, likely family run, half a dozen round tables and chairs collected around the cramped space.

There were only two other occupants in the room, one of them waving cheerfully when he saw him.

"Yo, John, buddy!" Spider-Man called from his place at the low table, a bowl full of warm spaghetti by his elbow. "How'd it go?"

"It went ok…" John said slowly, eyeing Spider-Man. A middle-aged woman stood by his side, an apron tied around her waist, eyebrows narrowed at him. "What are you doing? You should be—"

"—working," Spidey finished. "I know, but hey, in my defence, I was bullied into this!"

The woman by the hero's side scoffed. "'Bullied?' You were _bullied_ into a warm meal by a generous restaurant owner?"

Spider-Man grinned up at her. His mask was hiked to his nose, hints of spaghetti sauce smearing his cheek. "Bullied," he told her seriously.

She smacked him lightly across the top of his masked head. Spider-Man laughed, belly deep and genuine, and pretended to flinch away from her, yelping, "See what I mean? _Bullying_! Help, officer! I'm being assaulted!"

John glanced from the woman, lipsticked smile wide and happy, to the menace sat at her table. The two were chatting, joking, playing with one another like friends.

"Be quiet and eat your pasta," ordered the woman, laughing at his antics. "You're far too skinny. How often do you eat?"

"Well," Spidey said vaguely as he began to twist pasta around his fork, "y'know. I eat. Occasionally. Being a hero is difficult! I don't have much free time! Or any free time at _all_ , really…"

The woman looked ready to smack him again, or at least scold him, but John cleared his throat, interrupting them. They both looked up, and John stepped forward, shoulders straightened; this farce couldn't continue any longer.

"You're coming with me, Spider-Man," John ordered. The hero, out of place and obviously unwanted in such a homely, normal environment, ducked his shoulders, nodding a little.

When Spidey tried to rise, the woman pushed him back down with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Why?" she demanded. "He hasn't done anything wrong."

"We have work to do, Ma'am," he said. "Important work. I'm sorry he was bothering you. It won't happen again, I can assure you that." John glared at Spidey, and he flinched under the cold stare, not wanting to meet John's eyes.

"'Bothering me?'" The woman shook her head. "I invited him in. I found him shivering by himself in the cold street—it's _snowing_ out there! No one should be there in this weather, especially not in such a tiny costume, so I told him to come. I basically _dragged_ him in!"

John found himself blinking at the stranger. "Invited him in?"

"Yes," said the woman, vehement, "and I gave him a warm meal. I was about to offer you one, too."

"Oh," John said. Spider-Man's gaze was fixed on a point on the table, shoulders hunched a little. His costume was thin, John realised with a start, and it was snowing, slushing the footpaths outside.

Spider-Man stood without prompt. He sighed, the sound weighted and sad, and pulled down his mask. "You're right, we do have work. I'm sorry, let's go." To the woman, he said, "Thank you for inviting me, and for the meal. I'm sorry I don't have any money to repay you."

The woman bit her lip, considering the both of them. "Wait here," she said quickly, picking up Spidey's half finished bowl of spaghetti and striding toward the back kitchens. "Don't move; I'll be right back!"

When she returned several minutes later—minutes spent in silence—Spidey focused on the ground, fiddling with the hem of his gloves, and John casting strange, contemplative glances at the other man— she thrust the stack of containers she was carrying at Spider-Man, who took them, startled.

"You're too skinny," she declared. "I'm doing the city a personal favour by feeding our hero, lest you wither away into nothing!"

Spidey traced the top of the container, considering the warm food he could see stored below. "Thank you," he said, softly.

"Your police buddy can have some, too, so long as he stops being so harsh and commanding, and loosens up on you," she told Spidey, voice deliberately loud enough for John to hear clearly.

She glared at John as he left, but waved and said something low to Spidey as he followed the police officer out. Spidey nodded, and murmured something back, voice pitched equally low and soft. Whatever it was, it made the woman frown and purse her lips, worry evident in her furrowed brows.

Later, buckled in the police cruiser, John turned to Spider-Man, who had been allowed to sit in the passenger seat after John had relented, realising the subzero temperatures of this snowing, nighttime city.

"This is New York," John said after a pause. "This is _New York._ I don't understand; people don't just give away free food in this city. Not to strangers."

Spider-Man seemed to smile underneath the mask. "Sometimes they do," the hero admitted. "You underestimate them." He shrugged, seeming to grow shy, picking at the containers of pasta balanced in his lap. "You treat people right, maybe they'll treat you right back."

John considered that, surveying the hero before him, tucked against the door of the police cruiser. He seemed hesitant to be in the space, continuing to cast furtive glances at John, his shoulders tense, the soles of his boots half pressed against the seat, ready to bolt.

He considered Spider-Man's words, considered the words of the strange woman—her broad smile and warm meals, the way in which she watched over Spider-Man with something like worry—of the other police officers, of the Bugle's Jameson, each and every conflicting opinion, and tried to pin it on the man sat beside him.

He turned the keys in the ignition, and took off onto the icy streets of New York, and slowly considered that maybe, just maybe, he might have been wrong about the city's supposed menace.

* * *

The papers crinkled in Peter's strong grip. The police station sat beneath him—a tall, ominous building that made his stomach twist. His spider-sense was quiet, but he still wanted to run. He wanted to be anywhere but here.

Peter needed to go in there. The papers wrinkling under his tense fingers were a stack of evidence he'd lifted from a criminal, and needed to be turned over to the police. That's what this temporary ceasefire was for—they gave Peter the means to help more people and didn't shoot at him, and in return Peter gave them good publicity and helped solve cases they couldn't, using his powers and the sheer freedom of not being bound by the same laws the officers were.

Maybe Peter could sneak in through the air vents, like a spy in an action movie? Throw the folder onto someone's desk and then climb back out the way he came. No one would even know he was there.

Which meant no one would know where the evidence was from, or who it was connected to. Ugh. There was no getting around this.

With a deep, steadying breath, Peter fell to the street, web guiding him like rope. He let the web go and, flat footed, shoulders squared with determination, walked through the front doors of the police station. He ignored the gaping stares, the double glances, and stared straight ahead.

The inside of the station was a bustling hub of activity. Civilians were lined up at the front desk and people milled about. God, the station was crowded, full of more people than Peter had expected. There were crying civilians tucked into chairs, making Peter's stomach twist in sympathy. There were criminals thrashing in the guiding hands of officers; policemen and women in crisp, dark uniforms, badges shining under the office light, filtering in and out of the building. Some had jangling car keys or mugs of coffee in hand. Some had visible guns strapped to their belts.

Peter gulped. He felt like a lamb who'd been coaxed into the lion's den.

" _Woaaaah_." Peter glanced down; a little boy with big, awed eyes stared up at him. The kid was tugging at his distracted mother's pant leg, trying to get her attention. "It's—you're—"

"Hiya," Peter said, offering the boy a tiny wave. The boy smiled shyly and waved back.

The mother huffed in frustration and stepped away from the desk. "Sweetheart, I'm trying to—oh!"

"Hello," Peter said. "Um. Can I…?"

Robotically, the woman nodded. Peter stepped up to the desk and cleared his throat. The receptionist was listening to someone on the phone, picking at her nails. She didn't look up at him.

"I'm here to drop off some evidence?" Peter tried. He hoped he could just hand them off to the receptionist and run back out the front doors.

The receptionist didn't even glance at him, waving a bored hand. "Hold on, hon."

The solid reds and blues of his suit were beginning to catch everyone's attention. Peter shifted, uncomfortable. The eyes of officers and civilians and the awed little kid holding onto his mother burnt against his back. Even his mask didn't offer its usual veneer of protection. He felt exposed, his skin too tight, itchy.

"It's just—" Peter tried again, "just some files—and I have to—to—"

The receptionist waved dismissively again. Peter swallowed thickly and considered just leaving the files there, on the front desk—

"Spidey?" Peter spun on his heel. Marissa stood behind him, jacket on, handbag looped under her arm. He slumped against the desk in relief; he could've swept her up in a hug if he didn't think someone would reach for their gun if he went to touch her.

"Marissa! I have—" He waved the files in the air. "—evidence!"

"Well, follow me. We'll find somewhere to put them." She beckoned him forward with a nod of her head. She wound her way past the front desk and deeper into the office, and he scampered after her. "So. Bad guys?"

Peter nodded. "The worst. The kidnappers you guys have been trying to nab?"

Marissa made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. "Ugh, them! I'll sleep easier knowing they're off the streets."

As Peter tread further into the police station, he relaxed. Eyes still tracked him across the bullpen, and the officers that passed by openly gawked, but it was easy to ignore them with Marissa charging on ahead. He could focus on her dark, bobbing ponytail, the unfazed slump of her shoulders. She made his nerves settle, if only a little.

Peter was surprised by how ordinary the police station looked. There were water coolers spaced throughout the office, cork boards with promotional advertisements, the distant buzzing of phones and the shuffling of paper, the inane chattering of work colleagues. Bizarrely, the mundane office was almost reassuring.

"Annnnd this is my desk," Marissa declared. She dumped her handbag beneath her desk, stripping off her jacket and throwing it over her chair.

"It's nice?" Peter offered. It was homely, lived in. Framed photos of her husband and children lined the desktop beside stacked binders and a lanyard full of keys.

Marissa rolled her eyes. "Thanks, kid. Jack's desk is over there." She waved a hand to the empty desk several seats over. "He's out with the flu, but you can leave the folder there. He should be back tomorrow, and he knows where the evidence is supposed to go."

"He does?"

"'Course he does. He's your, well." She scrunched up her nose, thinking of the proper term for a moment. Finally, she continued, "He's your unofficial handler, I guess."

 _"_ _What?_ When was _that_ decided?" Peter asked. The thought of working with Jack didn't send fluttering nerves down his spine, unlike the reality of working with hostile officers. He'd already been working beside police officers for several weeks now, but it never stopped being frightening. Peter doubted it would ever stop making him feel light-headed and anxious.

Marissa riffled through her desk draws as she spoke, "Not as much _decided_... It's just something that's evolved. He gets along so well with you. Ah, found it!" She thrust a permanent marker and a pad of red paper at him. "Write all the details about your evidence on that. Where you found it, how you acquired it, how you were able to get onto the premises without a warrant—that one's important for the courts—and everything you know about the case."

Peter took the pad of sticky-notes. Choking on a laugh, he inspected the blue Spider-Man symbol photocopied onto it.

"Is this—is this _me?"_

Marissa sighed. "Yes. Yes, it is. It's a thing with Jack." She sounded exhausted, like this—her co-worker squirreling away superhero themed stationary around the office—was an everyday part of her life. "Now, go, will you? I have paperwork to do."

"Yes, ma'am," Peter said. He snapped off a salute with his left hand and went to find Jack's desk.

It was different to Marissa's. Smaller, with more clutter. There was an empty chip packet stuffed under a stack of paperwork, a small mountain of fountain pens, and a collection of knick-knacks. Peter flicked a Captain America bobble-head and grinned as it bounced.

 _Captain America? What, did they run out of_ _Spider-Man ones?_ Peter scribbled on a sticky-note. He stuck it to the bobble-head's forehead.

 _And clean your desk!_ Peter wrote on a second note. He stuck that one on an empty coke can. He stared at it thoughtfully.

 _You have an amazing taste in stationary,_ Peter added. He stuck that on a second coke can. He drew a spider, a quick outline with his poor art skills, on a fourth sticky-note and put it on top of the paperwork.

Peter frowned at the desk. Looked at all of the empty, sticky-note free space. Looked at his marker, the huge bundle of sticky-notes, and grinned behind his mask.

Peter uncapped the marker for the fifth time, and took a seat at the desk, settling in.

* * *

Dorian stirred sugar into his coffee. It was the cheap, burnt stuff from the break room, but it was warm and full of caffeine. It was only late afternoon, but his shift ran through into the night, when he'd go out on patrol. He was going to need as many cups as he could get to keep himself awake.

Morgan was sat at the break room table, glowering at his sandwich, picking at the crusts. Dorian almost paused to ask what was wrong, but left his co-worker in silence, instead. He was still furious at the other man for almost shooting his kids a month back.

The office was a buzz of noise. Everyone was acting strangely, tittering into their hands or looking put-off, agitated, as though the office had a bad stink to it.

The source of the office's excitement was located on his way to his desk. _Of course._ The person who had fuelled most of the drama in the office since his first appearance almost two years ago.

Spider-Man's colourful suit stood out against the office desk. So too did the dozens upon dozens of sticky-notes pinned to Jack Stevenson's desk. The _Spider-Man_ sticky-notes. It was strange to see the normally energetic hero in such an ordinary space. The sticky-notes with tiny drawings and messages that layered his co-worker's desk seemed commonplace next to him.

"Spider-Man?" Dorian asked. The hero's head snapped up, and he swiveled around. Dorian wasn't sure how someone in full body spandex could look guilty, but somehow, Spider-Man managed it.

"I'm leaving Jack a message," Spidey explained quickly. "For the—the evidence I'm leaving."

"You are leaving him _several_ messages, actually," Dorian said.

"I seem to be, yes."

Dorian set his coffee mug down on a nearby desk. The occupant didn't protest, just leant back in his chair and observed, grinning, as Dorian stole the sticky-notes from the hero's hands. He plucked a pen from the messy desk, and wrote, _Jack, don't get sick or rogue superheroes will leave you presents! Think of this as a life lesson. Love, everyone at the office._

With a flourish, he stuck it in the middle of Jack's monitor.

"There," Dorian said. Spidey was staring at him. "What? Bet you don't recognise me, do you?"

"You're from the bridge," Spidey said. His voice was quiet. Shy, almost. "Your dog's name is Blue."

Dorian beamed. He clapped Spider-Man on the shoulder—a comforting, friendly gesture—and ignored the way he flinched instinctively away. "You're on your way to really being a part of the squad, man. Pranking rookies is kind of police code."

"Sorry?"

"Don't be sorry; it's a good thing."

With that, he handed the sticky-notes back, collected his mug, and left the hero to his work. He shared a few secretive smiles with his colleagues cluttered around the desks, pretending not to be watching the hero work.

"You didn't spook him," Marissa said. Her nod was approving.

"Why should I?" Dorian wondered. He leant against her desk, and together, they watched the hero scribble on the sticky-notes, shoulders hunched in concentration. His feet swayed him around on the wheeled computer chair.

"Cute, isn't he?"

Dorian laughed into his coffee, startled. "I can't believe I'm about to say this, but… He's weirdly adorable?"

"Jack's going to flip out when he comes back. There's a betting pool starting about whether or not the kid's going to be angry or excited his favourite hero decorated his desk."

Dorian didn't comment on the betting, even though he knew it was against office regulations. "My guess is he's going to be angry he missed it."

* * *

Later that evening, when the offices were quiet, many of New York's finest packing in for the night, a lone cleaner made her rounds of the desks. She dusted here, wiped there, picked up the odd stagnant cup of coffee with an upturned look, and made sure everything was neat and orderly.

Currently disinfecting the surface of yet another desk, she briefly looked up. Her forehead bunched as she frowned, catching sight of the next desk over, and the chaotic mess that seemed to cover its surface.

Sighing and shaking her head in distaste, she finished with the now squeaky clean surface of her current desk, and moved on to tackle the next one. When she reached her acquired target though, she stopped, frown growing deeper. Reaching forward a plastic glove covered hand, she lightly fiddled with a note, one amongst the many, many notes covering the desk. It was sat stuck to a pile of somewhat crinkled papers. The messy spider symbol was unmistakable.

Eyes widening slightly in curiosity, she looked over the other notes while reaching down and emptying the trash bin by the foot of the desk. Reading all the ridiculous messages written in slightly unkept handwriting, the language and humour expressed in them soon became unmistakable. She took her hand away, shocked and dumbfounded at what she was seeing.

Her curiosity spiked tenfold, and she smiled excitedly at her discovery.

The cleaner looked like she'd opened a gold-filled safe filled with juicy secrets and wonderful discoveries. She'd accidently stumbled upon the biggest secret currently occurring within the police force… At least, to a sneaky citizen it was a worthy secret—the current happenings between Spider-Man and the police force, which, according to these notes, was pretty interesting.

Still gazing over the scribbled notes, her progress stopped when she spotted something sticking out from slightly under some of the other sticky-notes. Slowly sliding it out, she lifted it up to her face. The string of numbers stared back at her for a moment, before suddenly they seemed to come together to make sense. It was a number—a _mobile_ number—repeated over and over again as if someone had been trying to memorize it.

Biting her cheek in contemplation, she gazed back down at the desk, and started sifting through the piles of sticky-notes with the same number scrawled over and over again. Picking up her pace, she scrambled further until she reached the bottom of the pile. Brushing away the last note, she stared. A small, white piece of paper sat on the desk, and in black, printed ink, was typed an official message.

Her eyes skimmed the words. Something about an official live call line, new program, and the same number that was scrawled over all the notes was typed neatly on the paper, the words _Spider-Man_ written nearby. Eager, opportunistic excitement bubbled up in the woman, as the weight of what she'd just found washed over her, and she stared at the one little superhero themed sticky-note clutched between her fingers like it was treasure.

She noted the name on the desk the attention seemed to be granted to, and carefully slipped her prize into her pocket. The nearest newspaper would love to hear of Spidey's apparent new friendliness occurring somewhere within the police department, and she was sure a few of her friends would be very eager to obtain the city's very own hero's personal number.

The few remaining workers in the vicinity were unawares as the inconspicuous cleaner continued on her late night rounds. No one had the slightest hint as to the phenomena about to occur from under their very noses, as the usual nighttime activities proceeded as usual. Not a hint of drama in sight.

* * *

 **Ooooooo... what have we here then? You'll have to wait till next chapter to find out :P Thanks so much for reading! Hope you have a nice day :D**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey, hi, hello *waves*. Welcome to the nerd lair. Thanks for dropping by to read this chapter/story. It's very much hoped that you enjoy the experience :)  
**

* * *

Ruby stared at the number on her phone, the number that was supposedly leaked only days ago, the number for the city's very own hero, Spider-Man.

Her finger hovered over the button to press on the screen, where she had it set as the very first contact on her phone—ready for speed dial, but she hesitated. _How did she know it was real? How did she know that if she rang this number, Spider-Man himself would answer?_ The reality was…she didn't. It had not been proved that this was indeed the direct number the police had given the hero and used to contact him with; it was only a rumour that this was Spider-Man's personal contact number. So then, why did she have it on her phone?

Ruby took in a deep, shaky breath, as she looked up nervously from her position on the dirty floor, huddled against the side of an alley wall. Darkness bathed the area in sinister shadows and odd scuttling noises sounded from the corners. She was terrified, eyes flitting around at every sound, not daring to move as she shivered with fear. Tears streaked down her pale cheeks.

She wasn't on the best of terms with her family, and hadn't been for a while. They often treated her badly, sometimes even kicking her out, and she'd then have to run away for the time being. The minute she'd heard about the number, she'd jumped on it, typing it into her phone right at the top, for the slightest piece of hope. She didn't feel safe, and the possibility of being able to contact the hero if she ever needed help gave her the tiniest sliver of comfort, even if that was all. And right now, the worst had happened. She'd become hopelessly lost and alone in a big city at night.

Taking in another uneven breath, she did the only thing she knew how, and called the number. Bringing the phone to her ear, she tried desperately to control her breathing as she heard it start to ring. It rang once, then twice, and continued to ring. The tiny sound echoed from her small speakers. Just as a new wave of fresh tears poured from her eyes in wet droplets down her cheeks, someone answered.

"Hello, your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man here," a chipper voice echoed through her phone, accompanied by a background whooshing sound like a lot of air rushing past. Ruby froze as still as stone, in pure shock as she tried to process the fact that Spider-Man had actually answered and that she actually had Spider-Man on the phone. In the wake of this, she completely forgot to say anything as her vocal chords seized up, and her hands shook uncontrollably.

"Hello?" Spidey asked, as the whooshing sound stopped and he seemed to cease moving. His voice didn't hold annoyance though, as it sounded surprisingly concerned.

"S—Spidey?" her tiny voice managed to stutter, the shake in it obvious.

"Hello? Who is this? Are you alright?" The words came tumbling out of Spidey in a rush, with a taint of slight desperation.

Ruby opened her mouth to speak, but instead only managed a small noise of fear as she stared around her surroundings, jumping at another noise.

She was alone with her thoughts for a second, until Spidey suddenly spoke again.

"Where are you?" he demanded, in a startlingly determined voice. This seemed to break her out of her trance as she quickly recalled the last street name she remembered.

"Ugh, M—Madison Street, I think. In—in an alley," she choked out.

"Don't move," Spidey said, and hung up.

Ruby burst into tears, the stress of everything becoming too much, as she began to weep and weep, phone dropping limply into her lap.

She continued this way for quite a while, panic attacks shivering through her form, before there was a thwiping sound, and a slight pitter patter from the wall above her.

"Hey," a soft, kind voice suddenly said from not far over her head, and she jumped with a gasp, only to come face to face with the friendly bug eyes of Spider-Man glowing faintly above her head, where he was sticking to the wall.

It was really him. The real hero, the one she'd seen so often on television, on the front page of newspapers, on the bright screens of other people's phones.

She felt overwhelmed with sudden embarrassment; Spider-Man was a _superhero_. He dealt with super-villains, and saved the city—he wasn't there to fix the mess that was her life. She buried her face in her arms, tears wetting the sleeve of her sweater.

Ruby heard the faint sound of rustling fabric, and then a hand was brushing against the tip of her sneakers. She peeked up, and was met with the huge, goggled eyes of Spider-Man's mask, crouched bare inches away from her.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, voice softer than she might expect.

She peeked up at him under wet lashes, and shyly shook her head, no.

He brushed a hand against her knees, before withdrawing, staring at the bloom of red smeared on her jeans. "You're bleeding…"

She shrugged. "Just scraped my knees, when I—" she bit her lip, "When I left somewhere in a hurry."

He fell back on his haunches. The goggles of his mask were huge and shining; when the hero had first emerged, many had found the angled, bug-like eyes to be menacing. Now, up close, that thought seems ridiculous. They're big, innocent. Curious. How could anyone be afraid of him?

"What happened?" Spidey asked gently.

There was something about the hero. Maybe it was the eyes; maybe it was the thin, harmless line of his body—lithe, the man crouched small—nothing like the frightening, looming figure of her stepfather. Maybe it was how familiar Spider-Man was. He was everywhere, in this city. She felt as though she knew him already.

Whatever it was, it compelled her to tell him. He listened attentively as she spoke about the deteriorating state of her family; the constant threat of violence or sudden homelessness; how frightened she always was.

Her voice wavered as she talked, choked up with renewed bursts of tears. Halfway through, Spider-Man shifted, sitting cross-legged before her. One of his gloved hands rested lightly on her ankle, rubbing supportive, gentle circles into her skin.

"I'm sorry you have had to go through that," he murmured. She could only nod shakily, exhausted, all her energy cried out. He inched closer. "May I…?"

She nodded again, and didn't shy away as he sat against the wall by her side, and gently placed an arm around her shoulders. She rested her head against the curve of his neck, her eyes blinking closed. He was unnaturally warm.

Ruby fell asleep like that—the night air cold around her, the city's hero a warm pillow against her wet face—without meaning to. She could vaguely remember being lifted and jostled as they moved.

When she woke, she was in a warm bed. There were people chattering around her, and a radio playing a soft acoustic song in a corner. The sky outside was beginning to lighten.

"Good morning." Ruby jolted awake. There was a teenage girl sitting on the adjacent bed. She was red headed and freckled, her eyes kind. "I'm MJ," the girl said. "I work here. I'm glad to see you're alright."

Ruby looked around, taking in the huge room and rows of beds around her. "Here…?"

"It's a Youth Shelter," MJ explained. "Spider-Man brought you here, do you remember? He said to take good care of you."

The comforter pulled over her was warm and soft. Ruby gripped it tightly, recalling wide goggles and safe gloved hands and warmth pressed platonically against her. "I remember," she said thickly.

MJ pulled a stack of pamphlets and newsletters out of her jean pockets, and spread them out on Ruby's bed.

"This is for you," MJ said. Ruby glanced over the papers, and couldn't contain a small gasp.

There were pamphlets on how to report domestic abuse and get out of toxic families. It wasn't anything new to Ruby, the same useless things she'd been handed to by well-meaning adults and guidance counselors. However, it was the others, the newsletters detailing opportunities in overseas study, in university scholarships, job offers, and safe places—youth groups run by actual teenagers, other youth shelters, and another dozen or so spread out around her.

Tears welled in Ruby's eyes once again. She'd always felt powerless and entrapped in her household, but this, with all these opportunities and safe spaces offered up to her, she felt strong. She felt like she had the power in this situation. A choice. A chance to get out.

"This is yours, too," MJ said, and handed over a letter.

It was short and handwritten, the paper a little torn, but clearly decipherable.

 _You shouldn't feel threatened in your own home_ , it read. _It may not feel like it, but there are still opportunities. Your future is bright, and I'm always a phone call away._

At the bottom was the same number Ruby had dialled last night with numb fingers. Beside it, was a wobbly sketch of the Spider-Man mask, which almost seemed as though it was smiling at her.

"Spider-Man asked me to personally look out for you," MJ said, smiling gently. "So you're always welcome to stay here, okay?"

Ruby laughed a little, the sound wet and breathy. Tears dripped onto the torn paper, smearing the scrawled letters. "Thank you," she said, staring at the tiny, drawn Spider-Man. "Thank you so much."

* * *

Later that morning, Peter walked down the street in his civilian attire. He'd been called in to _The Daily Bugle_ this morning by one J. Jonah Jameson, probably something to do with a photography assignment. He didn't know why he couldn't just email him the details…he guessed the guy had always been old fashioned…

On his way to the subway, Peter couldn't help but reminisce over the unusual event which had occurred that morning. _How had the girl had his number?_ The strange phone call had undoubtedly taken him by surprise. He'd done all he could—made sure the girl was now safe, but how had it happened? He wasn't aware of the number being used for anything outside of for the police to contact him with. Was there something happening he didn't know about? Someone using it he wasn't aware of…?

Peter stepped onto the subway, making sure his camera was safe in his backpack, and squished into a comfortable position, standing up in the centre.

He pulled out his new, special phone from his back pocket, and began scrolling. He found no unusual activity or messages though, so quickly tucked it back away again, safe for the time being from prying eyes. He knew he was paranoid—no one had even seen the phone, let alone to recognise it, but he found himself being cautious all the same. Someone he didn't know had used his Spider-Man hotline. That, in itself, was enough to put him on edge…

Stepping back off the subway at his stop, Peter made his way up the stairs, and was soon standing in front of the tall, Daily Bugle building. Although not being quite as tall or spectacular as the Oscorp Tower, it still stood strong as its own. It was both the extra cash in his pocket and the thorn in his side.

He'd managed to get a foot in with the photos he took of his alter ego, as a freelancer, the editor having taken a heavy interest in the subject matter. Unfortunately, it was also a very specific interest, as the man had soon made himself out to be a formidable enemy, constantly and relentlessly slandering Spidey's name.

The money helped pay the bills, though. Aunt May would often wonder why he worked under such a man, claiming he never paid him fairly, but Peter was just glad that he could help out with the house payments with whatever little he could get. Oh well, you win some you lose some…

Walking across the road, he quickly made his way into the building.

* * *

The Daily Bugle newsroom was abuzz with activity. People ran about, and it was obvious something had everyone riled up. Judging by the sound of JJJ's voice, he was right at the heart of it all. And the wide-eyed look of the other employees gave Peter a pretty good outlook on his mood.

He gulped, gripped his backpack strap and shoved a hand in his pocket, before strolling his way towards the editor's office, sidestepping stuff and jumping out of the way of rushing people in the process.

Running a hand through his messy hair, he gave one final gaze behind him, before knocking on the door and turning the handle—slipping inside.

"Parker! Where have you been? Don't you check your E-mail?"

Peter paused—opened his mouth to speak, but the editor in chief had already moved on with the conversation.

Dropping his head briefly, he turned—defeated annoyance showing on his face at being unable to defend himself—to see who else Jameson was talking to.

"I want all the details! I want to know when it happened, how it happened—every juicy little thing. That web head is going down, if it's the last thing I do! I want him to squirm. And most of all, I want that number!"

 _Number?_ Peter wondered to himself. The reporter quickly nodded his head in acknowledgment and tore out of the room, the papers piled awkwardly in his arms nearly flying everywhere. Jameson appeared to grin to himself like the cat that'd swallowed the canary.

Something about it made Peter uneasy, although he wasn't sure what, and the teenager soon found himself shifting on his feet.

"Ahh…what's going on, Mr. Jameson?"

"Huh? Oh, you. You seem close to the wall-crawler. I want to know everything! The web-slinger's finally slipped up, thanks to that wimp of a police force for recruiting him. Apparently they set up phone contact, and I'm gonna get it, haha! The police shoulda' arrested him when they had the chance, and put an end to his masked charade. Too bad they started working with him instead. The softies. No one has a backbone around here anymore."

"Mr. Jameson—"

"Quit it, Parker. He's a menace, no matter what you say."

Peter froze, taken aback that Jameson had been able to tell so easily that he was about to defend his alter-ego.

"Now, I want all the photos, all the secrets. I'm gonna find out what this number is, and that web-slinger will never hear the last of me."

"But…Mr. Jameson, sir, don't you think that's wrong? This is official government and police business, there's nothing illegal about it, and many of the public like that the police and Spider-Man are getting along. Isn't—isn't that a good thing?"

"Yes, it's a good thing. Of course it's a good thing. That's why we've got to stop it, before people start putting their trust in dangerous vigilantes. Now, get out, and get me photos of this allegedly rescued girl. I want a page one, _Spider Savior, or Spider Kidnapper_!"

Peter's eyes widened in alarm.

"There's a number someone's using to contact the hero with that's been leaked from the police. I want to find out who it is, and make people aware that their children are not safe with this number drifting around. Their kids could be calling up a hard earned criminal. Now, what are you waiting for? Get out of here! I'm gonna break this story before anyone else can, if it's the last thing I do."

Peter didn't even bother to wipe the horrified stare off his face as he turned on his heel and left the room. He didn't even acknowledge his boss; his mind was too frantic, spinning elsewhere.

* * *

Peter took a lick of the plain ice cream he'd managed to pick up with a bit of loose change, and pulled his booted feet up under him, cross-legged…He was hanging from a web, upside down from the side of a water tower. He tried to scratch the sole of his boot awkwardly when he got an itch, before letting himself relax again.

He was just up here thinking.

He didn't know why he liked being upside down; all he knew was that he seemed to be able to think better in this position. So…this position it was.

Taking another lick of his ice cream, he sighed. Although from the outside he looked calm, on the inside, it was a very different story.

He was thinking about his hotline. His visit with Jameson had set him on edge, the editor's words floating around his head. _Had he made the right decisions…?_

He could feel the phone from where it was tucked away at the waist of his suit. The earpieces were left hidden under the ears of his mask. Their presence seemed to weigh heavily on his soul. _What if all this went wrong? What if Jameson found the number and used it for not-so-good reasons? What if somehow his identity got out, despite the fact that it was very unlikely?_ He'd fool- proofed the system. No one was getting any private details out of it. But still, _what if?_ _What happens if this backfires? What if it leaked…?_

On the positive side of things, his publicity would improve if the number went public. Being Spider-Man would become a lot easier, and he wouldn't have to worry about being hunted again, and the constant hatred thrown his way would most likely lessen. He'd be a proper hero. He'd know when more people were in danger. He wouldn't have to snoop around as much, or rely solely on his spider-sense to find trouble. But on the other hand, it could totally change what it meant to be Spider-Man…

Peter closed his eyes behind the mask.

 _And what of the police?_ His relationship could be so much easier with them if things continued. He'd know if they needed him or not at a scene. It would give them more space to do their job, while he would continue to have more for himself. He wouldn't be labeled a "menace" if he became a more accessible, public hero. In a way, he'd technically be in line with the government for once in his life, since it was their idea for the program in the first place, trying to put an end to the problems between the police and himself.

He admitted most of it didn't sound too bad. But is it what he really wanted?

The police hadn't attacked him in a while, and if he was to be honest with himself, he felt he was even beginning to make a few friends within the force, which previously he'd thought was impossible.

He'd have to see which way the tide turned. But somewhere deep in the back of his mind, there was still that small doubt that he'd made the wrong decision in being trusting towards the police, and that it all might just backfire on him if he wasn't careful.

For now, he'd just have to go with the flow.

Peter reached out his tongue to take another lick of ice cream, only for the whole thing to just go splat on the roof, having melted in the morning sun.

"Awww, really?" Peter complained sarcastically, shoulders drooping. "Why now? I was just enjoying that." _Darn_ _Parker luck._

A pigeon fluttered down from the skies, followed by another, and another, and soon a small flock of them were investigating the sad remains of his mid-morning snack.

Peter pouted. "Fine, enjoy it, why don't you." He gave one last look at his lone cone, before shoving it in his mouth, gobbling it down. _He'd just have to get something else later…_ for it was right at that moment that his Aunt May rang, calling him home.

Still, in the back of his mind, he just couldn't stop this nagging feeling that everything was about to change…

* * *

While Spidey was grumbling about spoiled ice cream, swinging his way through the streets, a certain particular figure made his way into the police station, days later than originally expected.

Jack Stevenson had had one hell of a week. His nose was still red and stuffy, and he felt like he'd been hit by a truck, or something equally as dreadful.

Wiping his nose with a tissue, he grumbled as he made his way slowly forward through the police precinct. He probably should still be at home, but if he had to rest one more day in that quiet apartment, he'd swear he'd go insane. So here he was, as determined as ever, making his way into work.

As he trod his way closer to his desk, he noticed he began to get some odd attention. People were whispering, while others struggled to contain giggles or angry glares as he walked past.

On an average day, Jack admitted this was a little unusual, even for him, what with being the rookie and all. But for the entire station to stop around his return, that was a bit out of the ordinary.

Brushing it aside, Jack sniffed, before moving over to his corner of the bullpen. He saw Marissa first, sitting perched at her desk, trying very hard to keep a straight face. He frowned, before turning to his desk. He stopped.

He gazed back at Marissa, as if to confirm his thoughts, and she cleared her throat, in an obvious attempt not to laugh, but the look in her eyes betrayed her hard exterior. And Jack had gotten to know Marissa well.

Taking in a deep breath, he moved around, and sat at the desk.

His co-workers all seemed to hold their breaths in different states of mind, peeking inconspicuously over their desks for his reaction. But their actions didn't go unnoticed by Jack. He didn't have time to acknowledge them though, as his eyebrows were too busy hiding somewhere up in his hairline at the sight before him.

His desk was absolutely, thoroughly, covered in sticky-notes.

Blankly, he stared at the note stuck in the centre of his monitor, the words blurring as he gazed at them unblinking. His mouth opened and closed, but he had nothing to say. His face said it all.

Shaking himself out of his shock, he began to take in the many messily scrawled messages littering every square inch of his desk.

It took a total of about two minutes, before Jack was hopelessly, helplessly giggling. He tried to stop it at first, sucking in the heaving bubbles of laughter, but before long, he was leaning over on his desk clutching his stomach.

There was nothing for him to say, and maybe he was still a little sick from the flu, but there was no way Jack could see the event in a humorless light.

Slightly giddy from illness, Jack's laughter continued to fill the room. His co-workers had no idea what to think, some even looking a little uncomfortable. Marissa was typing away on her computer, a large grin spread across her face. But she remained silent. Apparently his reaction satisfied her well.

After several long minutes, Jack finally managed to get himself under control, the giggles dying down as he stared at the note that had been stuck to his Captain America bobble head. He shook his head. He guessed he'd greatly underestimated Spidey. The guy really was a jokester. They weren't kidding. And now he'd reaped the consequences, as his desk had well and truly been invaded by the vigilante. His young friend had got him good.

Jack tried to imagine how exactly this event had played out in the police station. He couldn't see how his fellow policemen had sat and watched this unfold without intervening. He was surprised there'd been no issues towards the vigilante. But maybe he'd also underestimated some of his colleagues.

One thing he knew for sure, his new friend was gonna be a handful. What had he gotten himself into in rescuing this nit? Jack giggled again into his hand. At least things were going to get very interesting around here.

Moving other scribbled nonsense away, Jack uncovered the small stack of evidence Spider-Man had left. He sighed, but smiled to himself that the spider had trusted him enough to leave this on his desk. He wondered if he'd been aware that he'd somewhat been branded the kid's unofficial handler by some of his more friendly co-workers. People recognized the trust shown between the two of them from that dreadful day at the bank robbery. The thing had been blasted across every news station, and he'd heard Marissa was doing pretty well with the hero, too. He was glad Spidey was feeling better. He must admit he'd been internally quite worried about the kid since their first encounter. He'd never seen such fear before. The poor thing had been terrified. If anything, that's what surged a protective feeling towards the vigilante in him. He'd be darned if anyone scared him again. Whatever had happened, it had certainly left its mark.

Going through the papers, he mentally took notes of what he was seeing, and noted who he had to give them too.

Putting them safely aside to hand to the correct people later, Jack pulled out a clear, plastic zip bag, and got to work.

Fondly, he went through every note, putting each one safely in the packet. The kid had gone all out, and half the stuff hardly even made sense, as Jack just shook his head in amusement at them.

He quickly threw the random coke cans in the trash when he uncovered their notes, slightly alarmed with embarrassment. _He knew he should have cleaned his desk before he got sick._

The sound of the slight sticky rip became familiar as he peeled off each note, placing them in the bag. He couldn't help but snort at a particular few of the notes, like—

 _Spider-Man rocks!_

 _Would you get mad if I played with your police siren? Those things are seriously underrated._

 _Do you like pickles?_

…And a bunch of equally ridiculous nonsense. It sounded like the hero had just scribbled out whatever random nonsense that had popped into his head. Jack seriously wondered if that's exactly what had happened, and whether the vigilante had used his desk as a comfort of sorts whilst in the police station.

Jack was interrupted from deep in his thoughts when another officer timidly walked up to his desk.

"Jack?"

Jack looked up. The man was standing in front of his desk as if he felt out of place, glancing at the notes Jack was putting away.

"You might want to see this," he said, as he motioned across the room. Jack stared in horror at the news headline splayed out before him. Across the way, Marissa snapped her head up from where she was working, attention caught by the disturbance.

Jack gazed back up at the officer, before turning to Marissa, eyes wide and face white. He gulped, and Marissa rose out of her chair.

It was playing on the small TV sat on the wall. The thing blasted across the screen while a newsreader spoke eagerly into the camera. Moving over to the set, Jack turned up the volume. Half the police station seemed to pause to stare as the words flowed out of the newsreader's mouth, everyone slowly pausing what they were doing.

A feeling of horrified panic flooded Jack's form as he watched the story unfold, before he was grabbing his coat, and fetching his keys.

"I'm going out," he announced, mainly to Marissa, before the room was left looking at his retreating back.

* * *

 **...are you ready?  
**

 **Mwahahaha, cliff-hanger :P Things are about to get interesting. Hope to see you again next chapter :) And don't forget to leave your thoughts in a review, they are very encouraging :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**See, see? Not abandoned! I thought it said in one of the previous author notes that that was not going to happen to this story... Anyway, as for the suuppeerr long wait, I apologize, but there was a bereavement in my family and there wasn't much I could do about it taking so long, but here is chapter 7, and I hope you enjoy :) And btw, thank-you so much for the amazing, AMAZING support this story has been receiving over the last few months, it's truly wonderful!**

* * *

Evening fell slowly, the afternoon sun soon turning into twilight. Millions of twinkly lights steadily began to turn on, causing the city to bask in a multicoloured glow—day turning to night—as a change in shift fell over the city.

A HB pencil scribbled notes in the corner of a well-used algebra book.

Peter sat in his window-sill, legs tangled beneath him in a spider-like mess, biting his lip firmly, as he worked to catch up on overdue homework by the light of one such evening lamp, which was casting its glow over the small, Queen's street. The open curtain of his window blew lightly in the breeze, and the smell of Aunt May's cooking could be detected wafting up from the kitchen downstairs.

Battling with his over-used brain, he threw his now finished book shut and tossed it at the top of the messy pile on his desk before promptly shooting a web and snagging another one. He proceeded to open it with a sigh, and flip through to the required page, tapping the end of his pencil on the smooth paper as he read. He was just beginning to scribble something down in this book, when a sudden, shrill sound made him jump.

He scrambled, quickly catching his book and pencil before they fell to the ground below, and grumbled under his breath at the trademark Spider-Man theme song currently playing throughout the air.

Turning around, he slipped through the window and dumped his book back on the desk, before then searching through his room in a frantic muddle, trying to subsequently locate and quiet the annoying noise.

He stumbled around his bedroom, soon finding it wasn't located in the usual places, before moving towards his bed, and dragging out his backpack.

Picking it up, he tipped everything out—his spidey suit and a bunch of scattered clothing items falling to the floor. His lips drew in puzzlement, and he rooted around for a minute before picking up a sleek, red highlighted phone, the _police_ phone.

Its screen was flashing for attention, effectively breaking the peaceful silence of the night.

* * *

On a New York street, panic was rising. Over the darkened landscape of shining pavement, civilians backed up away from two growing groups of men slowly advancing on one another.

One civilian stood off to the side, wearing a dark hood and slacks, while carefully taking steps backwards. In his hand was a phone—in the middle of a call—outstretched, so the person on the other line could hear everything that was happening.

A long string of numbers was splayed across the screen.

* * *

Peter crashed into the first man, bursting onto the scene from seemingly nowhere, and did a series of precise flips as he successfully disarmed him, knife clattering to the ground.

He found himself standing in the space between two armed gangs who were about ready to tear into each other—tattoos decorating their large, brawny shapes.

"Aww, come on, guys. Do we really have to do this? I don't know about you, but I'd much rather be sitting at home with a cup of soda and a nice, big bowl of warm dinner. What'd ya say?"

He was met with cold, silent stares.

Peter's spirit dropped, his shoulders sagging dramatically.

"Come on, pleeaase? You're scaring the civilians." A thumb was pointed to the worried people behind him, in evidence.

Hands were tightened on weapons.

He sighed. "Really, guys, there's no need to fight. Can't we sort this out civilly? I _really_ don't wanna have to kick your butts today."

The only response he got was a war cry, before both gangs were soon charging at him.

Peter took them out with swift, precise movement—webs flying, as he twisted and spun, booted feet flitting along the ground like an elaborate, acrobatic dancer.

He twisted his leg around one man's arm, effectively causing him to cry out and drop his pipe, before flipping up onto a nearby overhang.

He observed the scene from his position above—satisfied that the situation had been neutralized—then swung away on a web, finding himself wondering, for a second time, exactly where the knowledge of the number for the call had originated from.

* * *

Back at the scene, the man carefully closed his phone and put it back in his pocket, satisfied that his endeavor had been successful. He continued on with his evening tasks, feeling heavy relief that he'd been able to warn the hero of the situation in due time.

He watched the citizens relax as they peacefully went back on their way, and thanked the heavens that the number hadn't been a fake.

* * *

The screaming tore through the alley as the woman grappled for her purse.

"Let go!"

The woman kicked the offender with her heeled boot, before quickly grabbing her phone and hastily typing in the number, on a desperate whim, that she'd memorized from seeing only minutes before.

* * *

Peter jumped down into the alcove from above, and proceeded to tackle the man before him, separating him from the victim. He then kicked and punched, spinning round in one final roundhouse kick.

The thief dropped to the ground.

He turned around. "Here's your purse, ma'am," he said, before handing it over and throwing out a quick salute.

"Thank you," the woman said breathlessly, as she watched him swing away.

* * *

Murmurs rippled through the crowd as people watched, and tears streamed down the woman's face as she stepped closer to the edge.

"You really don't wanna do that, ma'am."

Her hand shook from where it had been clutching onto a mobile phone, like a lifeline, as she took a heaving breath.

" _Please._ Give me a reason not to."

Her voice shook and cracked as she spoke, and Peter's eyes widened beneath the mask, startled by the sheer desperation in her voice.

A heavy weight settled in his chest at the responsibility she now set weighing over him, as a spotlight from a nearby helicopter lit up their forms.

"I can give you many, if you'll have them," he answered.

* * *

The little girl's face creased in panic, as she stared up at the fire escape above her.

Racing back into the house, she glanced briefly at the TV, before pulling the family phone off the wall, and punching at the large buttons with her small fingers.

* * *

When Peter saw the boy of no more than four years of age climbing precariously on the fire escape, his stomach dropped.

"I'll be right there in a minute. You did good, ok? I'll see you soon."

He hung up the line, before shooting a web over, and carefully landing beside the child.

"Hey."

The boy looked up at his sudden appearance, brown eyes all wide.

"Spider-Man!" he shouted, features lighting up excitedly. He immediately started to giggle, changing his attention from the hazardous, curious adventuring he was previously engaging in, to crawling as fast as he could toward the hero's location.

"Whoa, whoa! Slow down there, kid. Ok? Wouldn't want to fall; it's very dangerous up here!"

The boy didn't seem to understand, as he was too eager to get to his favorite hero, who had interrupted his fun by appearing out of nowhere.

Quickly realising the kid had no idea of the danger, Peter made haste to close the distance between them, and scoop up the boy in his gloved hands.

"Alright, now, would you like a piggy back ride? Why don't you get on my back, and I'll take you home?"

The boy seemed to oblige, too busy fingering his costume with youthful fascination. Peter quickly used two strands of web to attach him to his back while he was currently occupied, and then began to crawl lithely down the fire escape.

He landed with a thump on the one open window, to come face to face with a young girl of about eleven, holding onto a black, handheld phone.

He slowly crawled into the window sill, and detached the boy from his back, who, realising they were no longer climbing around outside, began to put up a fight.

"Here's your brother back. Safe and sound," he said, and placed the child in his loving sister's arms.

Now at a closer proximity, he could see tear tracks streaking down the girl's face. She'd obviously been left momentarily in charge of her younger brother, and the unthinkable had happened, thanks to an open window.

A crash sounded from the other side of the apartment, and the parents came rushing through the door, weighed down heavily with shopping bags.

He could see the mother about to yell something, before she caught sight of his bright, primary coloured suit near the window as he straightened up. The words died in her throat and, instead, became a large sigh of relief.

"Oh, thank _God,_ " she said.

Peter watched as the family immediately embraced, hugging while the boy was simultaneously reprimanded.

If it hadn't been for his phone, he may never have made it in time to perform this particular rescue, he knew. But something strange was still at work here he didn't understand. Something curious was happening.

In the corner of his eye, Peter caught glimpses of the evening news flashing across the screen. He cocked his head to the side slightly in curiosity, before his heart dropped to his stomach, and he knew.

* * *

Peter's heart raced as he stared frozen at the public screen currently displaying his number in large, bright letters across its surface.

 _What had_ happened?

His thoughts were so conflicted. His gaze drifted around in a panic, taking in all the displays of the news, watching people on the sidewalk as they read the newspapers—looks of disbelief on their faces—and he felt his chest tighten. Realisation hit him that he may or may not have just witnessed the biggest mistake of his life unfolding.

His chest heaved as he took in a deep breath, hand coming up to press against his goggled lenses. The stresses of life: balancing school and his extracurricular activities, battling with the police— had it been too much? Peter wondered if his accepting the phone could be the result of all this.

 _Had it been a mistake?_ He once again wondered.

He suddenly felt as if his life was currently hanging on by a thread.

So far, throughout his heavily guarded, web-slinging career, he'd managed to slip through the police and the government's fingers, but he'd never anticipated this. Maybe—no.

Peter shook his conflicted thoughts from his head, just as his very active phone suddenly lit up again, vibrating at his waist. _Was this really happening!?_

Not having time to work out or fully comprehend the happenings around him, he was dragged back into the throes of rescuing lives. The chain reaction had started, and everything was happening so fast. Faster than he could now stop.

* * *

Jack stood on the side of the road with his police cruiser, talking frantically into his walkie-talkie.

"Did anyone know where it came from? How—how did it leak? This was supposed to be confidential! No one knows yet? Well, are they looking into it? This is a serious security problem. We gave that number to Spider-Man in good faith! What…?"

Jack listened to the other end of the line as he attempted to talk to his superiors in the force, as he'd been doing for the last thirty minutes, trying to get to the bottom of this whole thing.

" _We're looking into the security tapes now, Officer Stevenson, but it's going to take time,"_

"Sir, Spidey doesn't _have_ time; he's out there in the middle of all this! We've got to get a lid on this thing. What? What do you mean Spider-Man's not our responsibility? He—"

Jack was cut off as the officer was called away on more important business.

He grumbled to himself, frustrated, placing the walkie-talkie back in its cradle before exasperatedly running a hand over his forehead, leaning against the doorframe.

Across the street, in another police car, Morgan couldn't help but overhear the aggravated conversation as he sat in his seat, pulled up at the curb.

Forehead creased, he watched Jack as he stood by his car, appearing genuinely upset.

Suddenly, Jack's head snapped up, and his own soon followed suit, as a flash of red and blue swung low over the street.

He sat there for several minutes after Jack immediately got in his car and drove off, presumably in pursuit, before the door opened and his partner got in, carrying a large container of chips; drinks in hand.

Quickly shoving one in his mouth, face pulled taut and eyebrows furrowed in heavy contemplation, he too started up the engine, and slowly pulled away from the curb, just as an urgent message came in over the police radio.

* * *

Peter's phone was ringing. He sighed audibly as he shot another web, swinging through the night time city. He felt as if he'd been going nonstop all night, calls coming in for help left right and centre since the number reached the public eye. It had been a particularly bad evening—all sorts of near disasters happening all over the city. He would be glad for his bed tonight.

He'd given up thinking over the situation some time ago, instead being forced to go with the flow as the night unfolded. Worrying about it would just compromise his ability to perform right. With so many emergencies coming in, he had to focus.

Pausing on a wall, he let out a long breath, before pressing the button to answer the call.

"Hey, so what's the sitch?" he spoke, grinning to himself at the inside joke.

"Spider-Man?" a deep, timid voice said on the other end, and he could hear light panting, as they coughed. "Spider-Man…is—is this Spider-Man?"

"Yes, this is Spider-Man," Peter answered, head immediately upright and alert.

"Tied up. Hostages. Please get here, quickly." They coughed again.

His forehead furrowed in concern. "Alright, ok, just keep calm. Where are the hostages?"

"Warehouse, I think. Dark. Dragged us in here with black bags over our heads. I think—I think there are seven…seven of us in total, roughed us up a bit. Pregnant woman amongst us. Grabbed us off the street."

A wave of panic washed over him. "Ok, ok, umm, is there any way you can get free?" Peter asked, brain turning, focusing on a solution.

"No, it's too tight. I've tried, they—"

"Alright, alright, street names, do you remember the street you were taken from? Did they move you far?"

There was a long silence on the other end.

"No," the man said slowly, as if he was realising it himself. "No, they _didn't_ take us far."

"Alright. Good. If you give me the address you last remember, I might be able to track you."

Peter paused and was startled as a police car went soaring past below, siren blaring. _They must know,_ he thought.

"The police must already realise you're missing. Someone's alerted them," he said.

There was a large sigh on the end. "Oh, oh, that's good—that's good to hear. Thank _God._ "

"Just hold on where you are. I'm coming for you."

Peter quickly memorized the address rattled off to him, before the man abruptly ceased talking with a hasty "gotta go".

Peter could hear someone else entering the room, but the line didn't close—remaining open.

He didn't wait a moment longer before he was heading in the given direction.

* * *

Peter landed in the wide street they'd gone missing from, the area already swarming with police cars. Since the open line was silent in his ears, he immediately began to scout the area.

Climbing up an antenna, he proceeded to search with his eyes from above. He gazed closely, trying to spot anything out of place, or any clues as to where they might have gone. Gazing up over the roofs, he couldn't help but pause when he caught sight of a large warehouse sat near the docks only several blocks over.

His eyes narrowed behind the protection of the mask.

 _Well, that was easy_ , he thought, as he jumped from his spot.

He landed in a side alley the police were currently working in, sliding down the wall slightly with the soles of his feet, before coming to a perched stop.

The police completely jumped out of their skins as the effect made him seem to appear from nowhere.

"There's a warehouse a few blocks over. I have reason to believe they might be holding them there. Follow me."

He didn't give the startled officers a chance to calm themselves before he was leaping off in the direction, confident that sooner or later, the police would most likely follow. It was one constant they tended towards.

His booted feet slapped to the ground in the deserted street, as his red and blue suit lit up the gloomy atmosphere.

This was not a commonly visited corner of town: that much was clear. The broken pavement was riddled with filth, and the odd abandoned trolley cart lay about, with signs that the homeless had on occasion visited here. It was a dark corner behind the main buildings lining the more popular streets: a perfect nook to hide away.

Glancing up and down the street, he took a few steps forward and eyed the rusted lock on the door.

He was just reaching a gloved hand up to break it, when the voice came back over the line.

"Spider-Man. Spider-Man, are you still there?" the words were whispered.

Peter glanced around himself warily again, noting no activity from his spider-sense, before replying softly.

"I'm outside the main door of a possible location you are being held in. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm alright, but please hurry. I've heard what they're planning on doing, and it's not pretty." Peter's head shifted around, alert, as he continued to listen to the earpiece beneath his mask.

"What is it they're—"Peter cut off abruptly as his spider-sense buzzed, and ducked just in time to miss a projectile aimed at his head.

Alarmed, he stared down at what had been shot at him.

"A crossbow, really? You couldn't have gone for, I don't know, something more up to date? Like, say, a machine gun for instance? Much more effective. If you're going to be a villain, at least don't insult me." He ducked and rolled as another one ventured in towards his chest, before he shot a well-aimed web, and effectively clogged the exposed weapon. He was just about to chase the shooter before another one started aiming at him from a different direction.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Peter grumbled.

"Spider-Man."

Peter spun around to stare at a rather shocked officer who seemed to have appeared behind him.

"Excuse me, being attacked by crossbows. A little help here."

The officer immediately seemed to break out of his shock and started madly talking into his walky-talky while simultaneously shooting at the attacker. Moments later police cars began to pull into the warehouse driveway.

"Spider-Man? Spider-Man, are you still there?" the panicked voice yelled in his ear, and he snapped back around, focusing on the task.

"Yes, I'm still here. I think it's safe to assume I've found your captors." Peter was surprised by how smoothly he found himself talking with the civilian, while simultaneously taking out guys with crossbows.

The firing stopped.

Peter successfully hauled the final one up from his place on the roof, and proceeded to drag him towards the growing line of police. He dropped the cocooned man at their feet where they immediately began to interrogate him.

Peter gazed at the structure of the building. It was old and worn. The other cross-bow-firing men had somehow managed to escape, and he assumed it must have been through the many cracks and holes in the building that he could see.

It certainly wasn't a very fool-proof plan for the average criminals.

"Where are you in the building?" he addressed the man in his earpiece, devising a strategy for entry. He would have just gone barging in head first, but there was something undoubtedly odd about this situation, and if he'd learnt anything from his time as Spider-Man, it was never to underestimate the enemy. Better to be wary, just in case.

"High. Several floors up, I think."

 _Floors?_ He thought. _So it must have several stories._ _Should be easy enough sneaking in then._

"Spider-Man." He spun on his heel to see a policewoman standing behind him, a curious look on her face. "Are you…talking to a hostage?"

Peter opened his mouth to answer, but found himself surprisingly caught off guard.

"Ah…yes," he answered.

"A civilian hostage?" she clarified.

Peter felt confused. "Aha."

Without another word, the policewoman spun round, addressing her colleagues currently on the scene.

"We have communication with the hostages; Spider-Man's got them on his comm," she declared.

The officers looked up from where they were discussing maps and preparing weapons to raid the building.

Peter felt a spike of anxiety at the weapons being loaded, but quickly shook it off as he gazed back at the officers, one hand partially raised to his left ear.

The policewoman spun back around again. "What's the situation, Spidey? What's the status of the hostages?"

"Umm, they're fine. Seem to be just a few bumps and bruises. He said they have a pregnant woman in there, though."

The policewoman had an obvious look of alarm cross her face.

"Do you know why they have them? Are they planning to negotiate?"

Peter spoke into his comm. "Sir, do you know why you're there? What was it you said you heard them say?"

The wait was awkward with the many eyes of the police boring into his small form, before a voice once again came through.

"Money; they want ransom. We—all of us here—we're all relatively well off. I'm a business man, and so are most of the others. They—they said that they were gonna ship us off overseas as hostages, where no one would find us, in order to force ransom. Spider-Man, they're already waiting for the boat to arrive, and they know you're here. Please, _please_ hurry!"

Peter gulped, before tilting his head back up to the police. "Ransom, they want them for ransom. They're planning on shipping them overseas. _Tonight_."

Activity seemed to follow those words as the police formed into lines and practically raced around the building, ready to ambush. Peter was left standing in the middle of the driveway, feeling he'd been left behind.

"Is there anything I can do, ma'am?" he said, addressing the policewoman still standing behind him. She looked at him warily.

They seemed to have a stare-off before she relented.

"Just do what you do, and try and rescue any hostages before they can be hurt."

Nodding, Peter shot a web and leaped up onto the roof, hidden in the dark. If he sneaked in through the top levels, he might have a chance of removing the hostages before the perpetrators even realised he was inside, and with one tactical advantage—the phone line.

"Hello, sir, can you hear me?" Peter whispered, as he began to creep through the shadows of the rafters.

"Spider-Man, we're here. Where are you?"

"I'm in the building. Can you find some way of letting me know where you are? The police are about to barge in to arrest your captors."

There was the momentary sound of shuffling, before there was a definite pinging sound, resonating through the earpiece as well as the air around him.

"Can you do that again?" he asked, encouraged, and so they continued, with the man repeating to tap whatever he was tapping as the hostages stayed quiet, and Peter crept closer.

Finally, he came into a small room and saw the figures of seven people tied up on the floor.

He jumped down onto his feet.

They all gasped, the woman with the rounded belly clutching her chest, as he appeared out of the dark. He let his eyes gaze over them all briefly, before getting to work.

"I'm gonna untie you now, so if you'd just remain still and calm, that'd be great."

Peter was surprised to find that they were tied in chains, but with a little extra work from his super-strength, he had them out and standing on their feet in no time.

Just as the last one was rubbing their wrists, the sound of doors crashing down could be heard around the building.

"Police. You are under arrest!" was yelled, and they could quickly hear the sounds of a struggle, with several people fleeing.

"Right, ok, we'd better go. Follow me."

Peter was just about to lead them out the door when his spider-sense buzzed and a man came flying into the room.

He immediately reacted, grabbing the man and attempting to tie him up, just as a second one came up behind him. He spun and grabbed the second's punch, twisting him around and throwing him towards a wall, shooting a glob of web to keep him in place, just as the first one leapt back up—landing on his back. There was a flurry of activity. The hostages quickly moved back into the room, away from the fight.

Peter had just got the first one properly tied up, before there was the sound of more running footsteps behind him, as another came at him. The man let out an aggressive yell before he was suddenly on the ground, inches from his red, booted feet.

Peter looked up, startled, to find Jack standing just at the top of the stairs, staring at him, flashlight in hand. Jack inclined his head, and Peter's shoulders relaxed for a moment, before he nodded in return, and moved to face the hostages, ready to get them to safety.

* * *

Morgan stood paused on the stairs leading up to the upper floors from where he'd been making his ascent, staring at the scene he'd just been an observer to before him. There was still something in him that wanted to react, screaming that this masked man was a dangerous criminal, telling him that he absolutely _must_ take him off the streets. But as he watched the pair begin comforting the hostages, he found himself unable to.

Quietly, he watched for a while, his eyes closely observing Jack's actions, before slowly moving back down the stairs and joining in with the rest of the milling officers…

* * *

The next morning, there was only one news topic on the stands, as the paper's headline's read big and bold _: NEW SPIDER-MAN HOTLINE: Directly contact New York's very own superhero by phone._

In small print below the title—neatly spaced—was typed: _Police confirmed authenticity._

* * *

 **Aye, some new developments.**

 **Chapter 8 coming soon...  
**


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